We waltzed Lisztlessly.
Art is only abstract when you look the other way.
Either I've been missing something or nothing has been going on.
Words themselves are the intimate attire of thoughts and feelings.
Killing time takes practice.
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?