A brick could be used to soften resistance. Smash the opposition into a pulp!


A brick could be locked in a safe, because nobody will try to steal it there.


Sleep with family is a napkin (nap plus kin), and I used a napkin as a blanket.


A brick could be pet, like a dog, and taught to shit in my neighbor's yard.


A brick could be used like sandpaper, to smooth out a cat’s rough tongue.


A blanket could be used to stop a war, particularly if that war is a Cold War. 


A brick is slow, when it’s lying on the floor. But fast when just thrown.


A blanket could be used to what the hell your way out of your neighbor’s bedroom.

A brick could be used to build a house—or destroy it, one window at a time.


A blanket could be used to cover up my modesty. And used to cover up my nakedness.


Armon stared into the wild darkness of his opponent and saw a reflection of his own fall.

In my perception, the world wasn't a graph or formula or an equation. It was a story.

It has always been my understanding that truth and freedom can only exist in wild places.

A blanket is a coffin, if the cops are after you and you have to dump a body quick.


A blanket could be used as a smothering agent, sort of like an employee of the NSA.