How little did I know!
I confirm that I posted that photo above before I read the first story below!
MORIYA by Dean Paschal
Paschal’s Wager is to throw his wrench into the works rather than a spanner. And the result is crepitating. This works FEELS to me like a classic fiction that has been multi-anthologised. But even if this is its first printing, it has a monumentality of endlessness — of Ligottian dollhood, ironIcally not as an anti-natalism of the spirit, but so as to transcend Ligottianism and give birth to oneself from within something already dead but clockworking and ticking with onward existence, wielding a highly sprung but slow motion flirtation of sexy sensuous epitomisation of one’s own soul. The clockmaker God having given him this gift, the girl that every 14 year old boy wants to undress slowly in a curative fashion, then to enter its niches and examine its shafts, explode like a bomb within it, fondle or examine its ivory bosom, its intrinsic nudity becoming obvious as its raison d’être. Its endless living soul as such a hybrid of you. ‘Its’ as short hand for ‘his/her’. YOR I AM.