Note: I believe by the type of type, the yellow paper, the writing style and the fact that he never read this aloud to me, the following short story is a decade or two old. Nonetheless, it looks interesting (I don’t read the things before typing them in — keeps it interesting for me). [...]

There was something strangely poached about the way things looked to Hurgelrood that morning. The sun had dawned like wet yolk on the toasted horizon. The wheels of passing cars seemed glazed and greasy like bad donuts. Everything he looked at suggested a repugnant breakfast.
He could not recall if he himself had had [...]

Here was a man in whom the will had become something almost vestigial. He would sit for hours on his wicker swingcouch on the porch of an abandoned trading post in the jungle. By an ingenious mechanism the couch’s movement was communicated to a mechanical punkah* overhead, which stirred, largely to no purpose, [...]