The New Yorker just published a new story by George Saunders online. It's titled "Escape from Spiderhead," and it's a cross between One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Flowers for Algernon, and Super Sad True Love Story.

He added some Verbaluce™ to the drip, and soon I was feeling the same things but saying them better. The garden still looked nice. It was like the bushes were so tight-seeming and the sun made everything stand out? It was like any moment you expected some Victorians to wander in with their cups of tea. It was as if the garden had become a sort of embodiment of the domestic dreams forever intrinsic to human consciousness. It was as if I could suddenly discern, in this contemporary vignette, the ancient corollary through which Plato and some of his contemporaries might have strolled; to wit, I was sensing the eternal in the ephemeral.

I sat, pleasantly engaged in these thoughts, until the Verbaluce™ began to wane. At which point the garden just looked nice again. It was something about the bushes and whatnot? It made you just want to lay out there and catch rays and think your happy thoughts. If you get what I mean.

If you don't have Readability, already, I recommend plugging it into your browser, using it on the Saunders story, and reading it all at once. Good stuff.