Ever so slowly, the gibberish in my spam is starting to become coherent (well, almost) sentences:

“then what has become of silicosis smallfry revolutionaries her?” do,” said one of the girls, “is sheetwork to surrender as jawboned mateyness quickly as possible, before confident curvature that field gun the walls would protect her

String together random words often enough and I guess you’re bound to come up with something (almost) understandable. At this rate, the spammers won’t need to steal from literature in and out of the public domain.

I have this terrible sinking feeling that the whole island of Lost is somehow going to turn out to be some weird Rambaldi cult thing.

I think I’ve known all along that they didn’t know exactly where they were going. I’m just worried that’s starting to show.

This looks familiar, vaguely familiar,
Almost unreal, yet, it’s too soon to feel yet.
Close to my soul, and yet so far away.
I’m going to go back there someday.
– “I’m Going To Go Back There Someday” by Kenny Ascher and Paul Williams

Aw, man, that’s a shame. Rest in peace.

From today’s The Writer’s Almanac, a quote from director John Sayles on “his first screenwriting job on a horror movie called Piranha”:

“My whole job was to contrive a reason why people, once they hear there are piranhas in the river, don’t just stay out of the river but end up getting eaten. That’s basically what they paid me $10,000 for.”

There are worse ways to make a living.