We all ended up somewhere with our various uncertain lives flapping about us in tatters and our pockets full of foreign coins.
Killing time takes practice.
Art is only abstract when you look the other way.
Time is the mother and mugger of us all.
Words themselves are the intimate attire of thoughts and feelings.
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?