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'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...
what did Puck say? what was it...? ...no more yielding... yielding... to dream.
Orbs of air, like weightless quicksilver, slide from my nose as I roll to my back.
... Death has begun to grip even me with its own arms, its own skeletal wrists bejeweled with anger and contempt.
Leaves 