There is a stillness between us, a period of restlessness that ties my stomach
Call me crazy, but there is something terribly wrong with this city.
Do we not each dream of dreams? Do we not dance on the notes of lost
She leaves my side and heads deeper into
All is as if the world did cease to exist. The city's monuments go unseen, its past unheard, and its culture slowly fading in the dismal sea.
I rouse Emily to our guests, as she finishes off our fifteenth snowman by setting the head atop its torso. She stands limp at my direction, pointing out the coming shadows and I cannot help but hear a...
I steal one glance over my shoulder as soon as we are far from the foreboding luminance of the neon glow, and it is there that my stomach leaps into my throat. Squatting just shy of the light and part...
Do we not each dream of dreams? Do we not dance on the notes of lostmemories? Then are we not each dreamers of tomorrow and yesterday, since dreamsplay when time is askew? Are we not all adrift in the...
History doesn’t start with a tall building
She wanted to know what American writers I liked. Hawthorne, Henry James, Emily Dickinson… No, living. Ah, well, hmm, let's see: how difficult, the rival factor being what it is, for a contemporary au...
That’s a stupid name! Whirly-gig is much better, I think. Who in their rightmind would point at this thing and say, ‘I’m going to fly in my Model-A1’.
Did Bach ever eatpancakes at midnight?
Tell the truth, but tell it slant.
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,And Mourners to and froKept treading – treading – till it seemedThat Sense was breaking through – And when they all were seated,A Service, like a Drum – Kept beating – be...
Any conversation including the mention of Roald Dahl, Ray Bradbury, or Emily Dickinson is one worth getting into or at least eavesdropping.
Open me carefully
Because I could not stop for Death,He kindly stopped for me;The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd Immortality.We slowly drove, he knew no haste,And I had put awayMy labour, and my leisure too,For hi...
She died--this was the way she died;And when her breath was done,Took up her simple wardrobeAnd started for the sun.Her little figure at the gateThe angels must have spied,Since I could never find her...
There's nothing wicked in Shakespeare, and if there is I don't want to know it.