We all ended up somewhere with our various uncertain lives flapping about us in tatters and our pockets full of foreign coins..

Time is the mother and mugger of us all..

Like a diaphanous nightgown, language both hides and reveals..

Teeth of winter, sinking into my flesh, my own clacking against each other like knitting needles, and I wish they'd knit a heavy shawl around my shou….

Killing time takes practice..

Art is only abstract when you look the other way..

Words themselves are the intimate attire of thoughts and feelings..

We waltzed Lisztlessly..

A pronoun, too, will aptly reflect the number of its antecedent: "they" does not refer to one person, no matter how many personalities she or he has,….

Either I've been missing something or nothing has been going on..