an infinite procession of sundays
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Oil slicked his fingers, and he resisted the urge to lick it up like ice cream when it dribbled down his arms.
He was wrist-deep in the chest cavity of his Machine, his thought-made-creation that could only exist in the very pits of Dreamflux Reef. It required constant maintenance. Gallagher was used to taking care of it.
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Gallagher has a Machine. Sunday ascends. A bird is trapped in a cage.
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- Part 6 of an infinite procession of sundays
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And so they kiss in an alley.
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- Part 7 of an infinite procession of sundays
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Poet-pirate quartermaster Gallagher waxes to the open sea in search of his sunny-blue... and his sunny-blue is found, indeed.
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- Part 8 of an infinite procession of sundays