there is moss on the walls and the stain of thought and failure and waiting
The years have gone by quickly. Death sits in the seat next to me. We make a lovely couple.
and even the trees we walked under seemed less than trees and more like everything else.
Her eyes always had a frantic, lost look. He could never cure her eyes of that.
they say that nothing is wasted: either that or it al is
I am a series of small victories and large defeats.