An old man drinks tea and reads the newspaper--forgetting age for a moment.
My mother's mild-eyed sadness looks at me from the eyes of those I love.
A dense undergrowth of extension cords sustains my upper world of lights, music, and machines of comfort.
A restaurant with candles and flowers evokes more reveries than the Isle of Bali does.
The time I kill is killing me.
Placing the extraordinary at the center of the ordinary, as realism does, is a great comfort to us stay-at-homes.