The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
Today life opened inside me like an egg.
The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.