Every morning the bright red ball was a little closer to the house.
There was a painting underneath the painting of the painting–sandwiched between layers of vermilion, saffron, mummy brown, virgin blood, were delicious, hidden universal secrets.
The couple upstairs whispered all the time. It seemed obvious to her that they hated one another.
Piles of paper lined the room, the desk and blocked the windows. All the same edition of the same newspaper.
“What was the sound? A squeaking violin? A woman moaning? A box of glass falling down the stairs?”
They shoveled the soup into their maws with steady enthusiasm.
“We have fifteen seconds to get through the door and get onto the platform before the death lasers open fire.”
When she lifted the sheet she was unprepared for the sudden birthday jingle.
The room was dark. He tried reading the note by the light of the oscilloscope.
It was a library made of experiences, each wrapped in brittle, crinkly skin.
When they played the game, they felt everything. Every atom in the universe, like sand–and time, like the ocean.
Every small shiny blue orb had a sticker on it, announcing the place of origin and the possible side effects.
Each 8x8 cube sat in a much larger cube. Each contained a wide screen TV, and an unlimited supply of muscle milk.
The interrogation room contained dozens of microphones, obviously placed, and covered with cute little animal stickers.
Little known fact, the dream sequences were shot inside an abandoned hula hoop factory.