How can I explain that he’s been the same person over the course of forty or more years’ worth of TV shows...
All is poetry. All meaning is bent toward something else.
He’d been gone for seven years.
Last night was still and quiet when I stepped out for smoke. I had quit months ago. But I wanted to feel that smoke in my lungs again.
The wind will be all that matters. And the rain, too.
“Fluffies now come with 15000 sheets per roll!”
I can no longer see his eyes. They are buried behind petals and greenery. The eyes themselves may be feeding the root.
A bench that has no eyes can never really look out into anything anyway.
...hell’s got corners. Hell, houses, bricks, belt buckles.