Teeth of winter, sinking into my flesh, my own clacking against each other like knitting needles, and I wish they'd knit a heavy shawl around my shoulders before widening into a yawn. Why do I always yawn when I'm cold?

Time is the mother and mugger of us all.

Like a diaphanous nightgown, language both hides and reveals.

Killing time takes practice.

We waltzed Lisztlessly.

Words themselves are the intimate attire of thoughts and feelings.

Either I've been missing something or nothing has been going on.