“No, you don’t mean nothing at all to me/But you got what it takes to set me free.” Radio sputters.
A shirt with a picture of Iraq, riddled with bullet holes. Victor eating a sandwich. “My brother’s over there.”
I was born into a carnival of polygons and meat. It used to be, when you believed in something, it believed in you too.
Saddam Hussein spoke fluent Portuguese right before dying on the MTV Music Awards. We all feigned surprise at the state of things.
Robbie bounces a basketball. “My brother’s under there.” “Under where?” “Haha, you said underwear!”