Le Rapidograph | Hector's personal site, featuring comics, writings and a blog

In the summer of ’2, a kiss was shared by a company of a number not so much odd as even. (It was said in circles as small and round as a squirming fish’s breath-bubbles that Zoo Anders had also put in a thigh or two).

That the company separated upon the administration of the aforementioned glorious event was the subject of much scrutiny and discussion, and had not a soft football fractured three skulls and landed on an ubiquitous eggshell of such provincial ancestry as to be forced to rent a tuxedo to enter any formal conversation, surely much furniture music would have been crafted and administered to floral pads of hotel lobbies, where cotton drapes would smother, but not terminate it.

All praise for the heavy-set footballer’s glistening kneecap was folded and posted in padded antelopes, which were tenderly misinformed and sent to the wrong tundra to dwindle and fade and never be returned to their senders.