There's never sunlight on that door, only a cold, still shade.
A ballerina soars across a corrugated roof.
I can see in his expression when he knows he's gone too far, but decides to keep going anyway. He forces himself to enjoy his own rudeness, his own petty cruelty, because the alternative is to be flooded with shame.
Oval windows frame the reflection of trees and purple flowers.
Flopping facedown on the couch: Endurance and patience have been mostly depleted - time to recharge.
Is laughter always a fear response? I think laughter and fear are closely linked. Even when we don't think we're laughing in relief or in nervousness, the jokes we laugh at tap into our anxieties about ourselves. We laugh at things we might become or misfortunes we narrowly avoided. We laugh in acceptance of something odd that might have been dangerous, but is merely strange and possibly wonderful.
Flower-bearing trees rustling against fire escapes.
He runs his hand up and down his face, as if clearing away cobwebs from his eyes.
The smell of sweat and coffee beans. Tinny music seeping out of headphones.
I am, once again, short on compassion for myself.
He defines a happy marriage as one that hasn't ended in divorce, not seeming to realize that people may spend a lifetime together in varying states of indifference and hostility.
The air quivering, a dim light in the tunnel brightening, then the racket as the train enters the subway station.
Last light of day slanting onto an empty purple vase.
He is calm and diplomatic. Even when listening to an unreasonable request, he has the look of someone contemplating rare wisdom.