We covered descriptions of individuals earlier this week. Now, things:
The early-November day is foggy and colorless. The sky and the street are the same color.
Hal listened to a few minutes of the [music] and told his brother it sounded like somebody’s mind coming apart right before your ears.
The same three or four booger-shaped clouds seem to pass back and forth overhead.
On a new paint job
Its black has the bottomless quality of water at night.
Gately’s always thought dark beer tasted like cork.
Avril’s office’s blue-and-black-checkered shag is deeper than the waiting room’s shag, so that the border between the two is like a mowed v. unmowed lawn.
‘I like the fans’ sound at night. Do you? It’s like somebody big far away goes like: it’sOKit’sOKit’sOKit’sOK, over and over. From very far away.’
The sky’s combustionish orange had deepened to the hellish crimson of a fire’s last embers.
It’s like a big wooden spoon keeps pushing him just under the surface of sleep and then spooning him up for something huge to taste him, again and again.
The turn-signal red of the stairwell’s lit EXIT sign.
A noteworthy thing turned out to be that the mound of earth on a freshly-filled grave seems airy and risen and plump, like dough.
It was somehow sadistic-seeming, like drilling a peephole in the wall of a handicapped bathroom.
Tags: David Foster Wallace, infinite jest, Infinite Words, Writing
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