—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

Her every word was flatulence.

—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

Furtively, he blossomed.

—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

When in doubt, do as the doubters do.

—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

The sign read "Book Repair call for an appointment," and on the door of the brownstone, silver, green, and seasonally anachronous, hung a Christmas wreath.

—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

My lack of enthusiasm could not be contained.

Plowing through old sketchbooks in search of a logo drawn for a friend three years ago, I have discovered some rather unnerving insights into my past self, which I will, of course, share with the world.

One in a series of sketchbook excerpts From the Files.

A moodily-lit Norm contemplates a JFK-esque portait of Mickey Mouse. NORM: "They look at you, and see what they want to be... they look at me, and see who they are. Haunted by the past..." c. 1996

—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

It was fourteen years to the day since she had met Martine, that tramp, on a southbound trek across the northern midwest.

—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

He was known as behemoth, and he was angry.

—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

As she cut the strap — the tear in its journey from her cheek to the parachute catching just for a moment the sunlight — she wondered if this, finally, would be the deed that would tip the scales against her.

—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

The yellow sang to him like an unfortunate canary.

Cheers to Danielle, who just introduced me to my new favorite phrase of all time:

"talentless assclown"

—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

His grocery list read as follows: eggs (dozen); milk (pint); ice cream (chocolate); beer (case); cereal (in memory of); fruit (pomegranate); bacon; sausage; pain; suffering; anguish; steak (porterhouse).

—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

Her expression, though perplexed, was not perplexing.

—Being an attempt to craft The Perfect Sentence—

If anything, thought Tom, as he slid his foot into the pant leg, my opinion of myself has been slightly lowered.

I have decided that 2004 will be the year that I write the Perfect Sentence, the sentence of such beauty and incisiveness that all sentences that have come before it, and will come after, are obsolete. Will this sentence be crafted as the lead-in to a novel? Haven forfend — no, this sentence will be a sentence for its own sake, standing alone against the world, independent in its resplendence.

I will be posting attempts here for your perusal; feel free to leave your impressions.