I tell her that it’s 2062 where I come from.
Clocks are trouble. They lie. Women are trouble. They know when you’re lying. Bloody hell. I don’t know what day it is.
Image: Barun Khanal
There was a time when people in the great plains believed in nyāya. Not anymore. Not after what had happened.
“Y’know, Marilyn Monroe was a Russian spy?” “Nope. But a postman wrote Ham on Rye.”
I can’t exactly remember what happened in the days before the blockade was imposed. But I do remember that just as the gates in the mysterious south went down and prices went up a beautiful girl with dark curly hair moved in to the next building.