...of course, there was no one to hear him say this.
mrs. weissman... teeth... congealed beef. darkness. no dreams.
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.
The waves crash on the shore below us. It’s beautiful here. I could sleep here forever...
Leaves 