They tell him not to take a swig from the hot sauce bottle. But how will he know what it's like for his tongue to catch fire? He compromises and shakes just a few drops into his mouth. Then buries his face in a pillow on the couch.
We're going to have an intense, pleasing conversation across a table covered in desserts. And afterwards, we won't bother keeping in touch.
Three winter-blasted souls. They're perched on a sofa, their eyes sharp and cold. When I nod 'hello,' they don't reply.
I'm like a suitcase. She drags me over to the window where I'll be out of the way.
The young child insists that the elevator's '5' button is really a 'B.' He points out curves and lines to support his argument.
Brown grass and bracken in the clean air of the hills.
After oral surgery, he tries a full sentence. All we hear is a groan that ends on a whine. There's probably a question mark at the end of the sentence.