Once I spent a whole day there, a blade of grass in each hand to anchor me to the warm earth. I watched the sun rise, pass over my head and set. Ladybirds mated on my knuckle; a shrew nibbled a hole in my stocking while I tried not to laugh. Such a day was worth any punishment.
Stories are a different kind of true.
Any parent knows how to be the ideal parent.
I really like to keep my palette small but to be very intense, very myopic.
I look back one more time. It's like a crater, a hole where something happened.
If I was made of cake I'd eat myself before somebody else could.