The keeper of keys has bats in his belfry.
He talks and talks, and the point of his talk is just outside our reach, like a firefly winking in and out of existence.
Her smile is brittle. She's only sure of herself among books.
From spirituality to bagels. I'm walking the surprisingly thin line between profundity and absurdity.
The tulips are in Technicolor, saturated in red and yellow.
Rumpled hair, a coffee cup loose between his fingers. The familiar crinkle in the corners of his eyes.
During the group meditation, my mind floats and expands, then abruptly contracts. The process restarts. The mind rises like a balloon until it reaches the end of its string. Then it descends and hits the floor.