(Day 56) A Story
“Fifty-six times,” he muttered as he sat at his dinng room table, iPod in hand. “Fifty-six times I’ve sat here and tried to think of the opening line.” He…
Sky
So the blackest night is broken, shattered by the sweeping dawn. Purple clouds, a remnant token of the darkness almost gone, touch the sky like mountains…
When I Let My Hands Talk
A writer will always write to an audience who might never see the words, so in essence then a writer is always talking to themselves. * * * * Mmm, yes, the…
Thoughts Of The Day
Imagine if life Is like infinite instances Coming from nothing Inevitably becoming nothing At a constant rate It’s circular-- life reinitiates Once spread dead…
Ruins
There is something beautiful and intriguing to me about ruins. In really every sense of the word, too. Physical ruins are the most obvious. Monolithic tributes…