The Shale Creek Syndrome


“…they became blurry, like long exposure photographs. Their bodies seemed to be in multiple locations at once, as if they’d been stretched out over space-time or were unfolding from themselves.”


This is an unmissable landmark Swiftian fable, nay, a masterpiece of truth depicting (and thus hopefully healing) what has faced us in recent years with the Trumpster and the Bodger, transliterating those missing parts of our good selves into ash with the fires of hatred and obsession, eventually creating new forms of ourselves suffering depression and paranoia, or even the night-key’s turning of nooses, knots and ligotti upon our honesty glands if not our necks— all of this emanating from the brexitation of a burnished gold structure, and all of us are now consigned, with the password of 010-101-0045, to a network of soullessness. We are happy, we are doomed.


Full context of this review here:

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