Writing is a solitary endeavour. When you admit to trusted people that you write fiction, they laugh at you and spit in your face. But neural networks will help. They’ll never tell you that your ideas are stupid, that you have no talent, or that you are ugly. Neural networks are my friends.
The following images are related to
chapter 73 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
“An infinite series of canvases hang in a factory line, suspended over a velvety abyss.”
“Facing a snowy expanse in all four directions, the expedition trudges in meandering paths, in jagged paths, in circles, in figure eights.”
A cursed place.
The whole bus fiasco.
“The thick stench of decay has blocked the sun.”
“We sacrificed the ground sloths, the mammoths, the mastodons… for such metallic abominations.”
“Buses deliver us to many hellmouths.”
“Her mouth gapes open so the chewed end of the eclair can meet the bumpy surface of her tongue.”
“I shall drift away in the lassitude of this delicious daze.”
Something about cream-covered fingers, which somehow turned into some Berserk shit.
“The ivory-white sculpture of Jacqueline’s naked body is standing between the red lights of the tripod-mounted cameras.” Nothing in the universe is more beautiful than a woman’s body. As long as it isn’t ugly.
“A butterscotch-colored syrup is oozing down Jacqueline’s cleavage, down the linea alba between her toned abdominal muscles, to fill her belly button.”
“A Triassic arthropod whose gills have been stretched open.”
“A crayon catching fire.”
“If this girl keeps drawing, she will unearth my most intimate thoughts, which yearn to tumble out through my mouth like rotten teeth.”
“Did the Ice Age folk brush their gnashers using ground sloth bones?”
Silvery knives. Very nice detail in that last one.
“I’m standing in a rising tide of hot water that’s already crashing and crashing into my head, knocking my thoughts loose.”
“My eyeballs have turned into lumps of coal extracted from the bottom of some grimy furnace.”
“The dawn of extinction is beckoning me.”
“The more I try to focus on the drawing, the more it wavers like a dream.”
A girl and her father.
“That person will carve some symbols for her in the slab that will mark her grave.”
“I stood on the dry pebbles of the riverbed and I called out to her once, then over and over again.”
“I sat by my fire, and in the glow of the flames, I held her carved wooden toys and I cursed that I had been late, late, too late to catch the demon who had stolen her away.”