moments bleed together, no span to time

It smelled like aging wood and creosote, plastic book covers, and old paper. Old paper, which my mom used to say was the smell of time itself.

Who can judge the judge?

I really was alone, and the only thing worse than being alone was having everyone else see how lonely you were

red plastic rain her tears stain

I would love to say how nice it is to see you again, but that would be a lie. And I am nothing if not honest.

Was it worth it? Feeling better for a minute or two, knowing that the cold would still be out there waiting?