I created an icicle sculpture in the snow. White on white.
Words have longer lives than people.
When is a cell finally too small to hold our essence?
Which weakness shall I tell her? “I walk funny,” I say, and she’s satisfied with that. (inside joke)
When you are perfect, is there anywhere else to go?
Chance. It weaves through our lives like a golden thread, sometimes knotting, tangling, and breaking along the way. Loose threads are left hanging, but the in and out, the back and forth continues, the weaving goes on. It doesn't stop.