|But my God, Jones, it was not just pasta. This thing...
||[Jul. 24th, 2010|12:41 am]
The American Caliban
Rising from the waves atop a misshapen city of impossible angles and mind-snapping vistas, tentacles the size of ships writhing in ichor, great bellowing leathery wings blasting fetid gales, and an unspeakably alien head bulging with eyes, mouths, and unnameable gaping maws: some refrigerator pasta.