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Weekly Contest #239
I can barely remember the time before the sketches. The days of old, as the poets might say, or the good old days, as my grandma would claim. It all melts into a confused haze, in much the same way as Dali’s clocks did with the invisible heat of time. It was a time of weirdness, where everything was so dull that one could barely tell one day from the other. I still had a day job in those days, and still worried about paying bills and being on time even as I wasted all my time. In those days, when I came home in the evenings, ...
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