a story

a personal cloud or laundry

In which a chocolate chip cookie and iced mocha drink given to one who asks become the media through which a mood is formed.

As a train rushes north, so my heart rushes into a curious roundabout where it goes and goes until it might find an acceptable outlet.

It isn’t food that produces this unusual sensation; it’s the thickness of time.

As far as walking on the edge that may be inviting you to fall off goes, take a minute to consider its generosity, its mercy.

Instead of talking about certain memories, set them on this bright ledge for a pigeon to consider.

Anywhere is literally nowhere with and without the grit known as sand in more careful publications.

I didn’t miss the history book until it confronted me in the rain sobbing like a little kid.

Anyone might presume to have made something, but when the geese cry hark we understand why the wind is so blind.

If everything requires our assent, who’s hungry when the storm passes but how could we be hungry then.

And then something turns the closet into a great vacation.


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