Are we not all criminals--eating our take-out, foraging for mushrooms, lapping at puddles?
What happens when sleep becomes commodified? What if all the people at your local caf...
Are we not all criminals--eating our take-out, foraging for mushrooms, lapping at puddles?
What happens when sleep becomes commodified? What if all the people at your local caf...
Are we not all criminals--eating our take-out, foraging for mushrooms, lapping at puddles?
What happens when sleep becomes commodified? What if all the people at your local caf were piloting drone strikes? What is the hidden cost and darkness of the society we must all engage with? Mr. Colostomy opens up cans of worms faster than they can restock the Goya on your bodega shelves. Who is Mr. Colostomy? Why, he's a manifestation of a searching consciousness, a marginally employable horse detective who sleeps outside, standing up. As he attempts to unravel a ridiculous plot that follows the disappearance of a couple of brats who turn into atomic particles after sundown, Mr. Colostomy remains always alien, a mutant mustang, an eccentric equus who might just be trying to make a buck in Babytown, the Babylon built by babes--or, is a more sinister plot a-hoof?
The
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