Stolid and tall, drifting ahead of us like the mast on a ship.
Red and yellow kayaks, like slices of fruit candy, bobbing on the river.
They work hard to create the impression of a shared reality, even as their hearts splinter.
We have no solutions, only complaints. But it's reassuring to find people who complain about the same things. The shared noise is heartening.
The whine of pigeons flapping by my ears.
Fisherman by the railroad tracks, what will he find? Rubbery fish? Tires that have come alive with fins and scales?
Harried women in a chilly supermarket; they're carefully made-up, their eyes fogged.
In a battle that spans multiple eras and realms, who will win: Plants or zombies?
The pond is still and lets the sky steal across it. It's a safe place for the sky to settle down a short while. No waves or ripples will chase away the clouds.
Goal: To rush to the end of the piece and then dance away from the keyboard.
One trait I want to avoid as much as possible is fretfulness. I don't want to lie prostrate before my fear and call attention to myself with it.
He had the vague hope that if he stopped doing anything, time itself would stop. Instead it's flowing around him and nudging him along, while he struggles to keep his footing.
I like community gardens grown in old broken places. A scarred part of the city now bears vegetables and redolent plants.
Enough people say they like something, so then others like it too. And some dislike it just because too many others like it.