I am not a Sunday morning inside four wallswith clean bloodand organized drawers.I am the hurricane setting fire to the forestsat night when no one else is aliveor awakehowever you choose to see itand...
JASON: 'Intended wings.' How depressing.MICHAEL: Yes. Makes them into suicides, really, the pigeons.JASON: No - no, it doesn't. It could mean the wings were 'intended' to carry them upwards, out of th...
A half-open window.Morning-fresh air carriescurious sunlight into a bedroom.Flecks of dust shimmer yellow-gold.Four feet, entwined under white sheets.Joni's Blue, on the player.Delicate curtains slow-...