Entries 6
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You imagine a story composed of nothing but dreams, one after the other, weaving together and overlapping, without substance or plot. The characters drift together and drift apart, again and aga...
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Walking away from the night, into the day. Getting warmer with every step toward the sun. You can’t lose your way on this golden path. Nothing can follow you out of the darkness.
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Stones with sharp edges. You could chip weapons with them, obsidian blades finer than steel. It would take a long time, and a steady hand. You’d probably never get it right.
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You read magazines while you wait. The New Yorker highlights how out of touch you are with popular culture and Vanity Fair how ignorant you are of culture-culture. Or maybe the order there shou...
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You ponder summer. Where does it go in the winter. Is it sitting in a shack somewhere in the tropics, hiding out. Or does it just crawl under the fallen leaves in the yard and try to get some ...
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A lost bag. The last bag. A bag full of thoughts. You can’t crimp the top of the bag down tightly enough, your thoughts will always leak out before you get home.
