Precipitate8 muses about the nature of human conflict – and tries to avoid the stray punches.
Precipitate8 finds out that the process of leaving is more protracted and mundane than he thought. and that profound discovery can come from graffiti.
There’s no such thing as a quiet night in on Cat Dissections time. As Iggy Pop would say, Time To Go Nightclubbing. But are we what’s happening?
Epileptic seizures and impending age… the old one-two punch takes Precipitate8 down for the count. Happy Birthday!
As Precipitate8 leaves the working world behind, he finds himself oddlly melancholy over leaving co-workers he thought he didn’t care about at all.
Precipitate8 pens the last Winnie the Pooh story.
A face from the past, complete with all of the echoes and dangers that come with certain types of people. Plus, a guide to customers, strangers, and friends.
Hey Jimmy, look at all o’ them flowery words over at Cat Dissections…
Hey, he got hit by a car, it’s pretty self-explanatory. And ugly.
Precipitate8 sweeps back into Gainesville on a wave of degradation and bad vibes. Too much hurt. Time to get a real job. Time to hide.
Precipitate8 returns to Orlando, and things go downhill from there. Have you ever been to the Melody Motel?
Another Gainesville summer comes to an end for Precipitate8, mired in psychotropics and succubi of all sorts.
Gainesville boredom plunges Precipitate8 into vampire delusions, epileptic seizures and various chemical escapades.
Precipitate8 is tormented by dreams of Taco Bell cannibalism, claustrophobic submarine missions, and strange facial deformities. Burroughs-y,
Precipitate8 finds that hospitals and ambulances often conceal darker truths and grotesque experiments.
Precipitate8 takes in every trashy, messy and confusing corner of Los Angeles in a whirlwind immersion. Or vacation, I guess.
Precipitate8, after a night out on the town, almost makes it to the car, but late night crazies and wiccan vampire watchers have other ideas.
Locked away in a mental hospital, Precipitate8 meets the Telekinesis Girl. Here’s her story.
Performance Art for the quarantined.
When I Was a Writer (Pravda). Review by Bob Pomeroy.
