How many of these things are lost?
Midnight sits thick outside the glow of the streetlamp above my car. Thick, empty, but somehow still swirling with voices and sound and ideas.
I’m always leaving. And in leaving there is no time for sitting and telling.
by: d. heidel It's 8:11 in the morning. And those words seem to come out the color of a city bus, the scent of a taxiing airliner, and with the sound of a stubborn city tree. It's 8:11 in the... Continue Reading →
...I show my own holes...
I've never been to Atlanta. Except when flying Delta. And then, it all smells like jet fuel and lived-in clothing. You'd like it.
...my words and my flesh are both made of the same incomprehensible lie.
The waves crash on the shore below us. It’s beautiful here. I could sleep here forever...
I come up from below and sit for a while in the spitting drizzle that’s bubbling through the crack in the living room ceiling.
Leaves 