Like a diaphanous nightgown, language both hides and reveals.
Killing time takes practice.
Time is the mother and mugger of us all.
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?
Words themselves are the intimate attire of thoughts and feelings.
We waltzed Lisztlessly.