Without the threat of punishment, there is no joy in flight.
The thorn of death falls from heaven, and its myriad forms leave us no room to move.
Do you shovel to survive, or survive to shovel?
When I was young, I could bounce back from things like a brand-new rubber ball.
Year after year students tumble along like the waters of a river. They flow away, and only the teacher is left behind, like some deeply buried rock at the bottom of the current.
Green makes me think of silence, or maybe it's loneliness. I get the feeling of a terribly distant star.