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I made a new website (with xml feed) for slightly longer pieces—please follow the link in my profile, or go to maosboo dot com, or, alternatively, descend into your own internal lightless despair

All conversation requires us to construct a platform of shared understandings, but, during most conversations, I can’t take my eyes away from how far it is down over the sides of the platform, and the wind whipping around the platform's supports sounds far too much like laughter

Kirby is such a great character because who amongst us does not identify with the depthless hollow (pink)

Procrastinating on jumping down the overgrown well in the abandoned industrial estate and getting "unfathomable power"

We argue bitterly about how to raise our child—upwards, through the sheltering canopy, to be lost in the airless void, or downwards, through the grasping roots, to be warmed by the airless darkness

Join me

Whenever I take a photo of a window, it is always the wrong place on the other side. This time it is a door

On the day our son turned fifteen, he jumped out of the window on the third floor, and he has hung motionless in the air up there ever since, covered in leaves in the autumn, snow in the winter, feathers in the spring, and, in the summer, his poor skin gets so agonisingly burnt

The conman says that they are not real, that there is nothing staring from the tops of cell phone towers, that you should not believe every whisper that reaches your ear as if they were standing right behind you

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a door, that, when I turn to face the shadows, is not there, but that, when I turn back, I see again in my peripheral vision, but, this time, the door is open, and the shadows have gone

Where is the light coming from? I can't see a source. Oh. How did you get in here? Do you see the light too? How come there are no words in the light? I really need the words—do you know them? What! Where did the light go?

Hell, far below, is dark and small. Heaven, far above, is dark and vast, lone angels lost, wandering, raised trumpets silent in the void

Consoling my daughter by retelling the story of how I was eaten by the great void in the woods, and seeing the void look back from behind her eyes

Keyhole in the trunk halfway up the tree. Keyhole in the featureless concrete wall at the edge of town. Keyhole in the underwater cave. Keyhole in the mirror, but only on the other side. Keyhole in the dark cloud on the horizon, but something is in this keyhole, and it is turning

The mime stands, with back arched and hands on hips, at the edge of the filthy bed of the sick man, miming laughter. At the exact moment that the man's mouth forms into the tight "O" of death, the mime mimes swallowing something small. The mime never dies

I solve the last of my problems and immediately completely dissolve into a puddle of warm liquid that everyone agrees has a bewildering taste

Please separate your dreams into recyclable and non-recyclable bins to allow them to be appropriately processed by your local authority

What I fear in the night is not what is outside, trying to get in, but, instead, what is inside trying to get out, inside my head trying to leave its prints leading into the city from whence it would never again be confined to such a small imagination

It is widely recognised that it is impossible for one to write. Less well known is the fact that it is impossible for one to dream, as the imaginings of the night—of the charred field, of the sky stretched strangely by clouds, and of the things beneath—are not in any sense yours