Shoshness

Because it's late because I'm alone because I drank a little. my life to tonight would be a rich voice a minor key, with irony and a triangle just for fun. small spherical lights hang in smiles from post to post and the crowd looks on with interest between thoughts and drafts. it's the kind of evening that suspends you where today and tomorrow don't really matter just the people you're with, the humidity, and the smell of lilacs.

Dreamweavers always have a tranquil disposition while their fingers are encircled by many-colored silken strands.  Are my dreams woven with yours?  The dreamweavers passively acknowledge me as they continue to knit.  Threads, like time, fall in and out of view of the rat's nest, and the irrationality of it all leaves me feeling nauseous.  I sit beside one of them, carefully placing myself between spools and piles, and contemplate the alien nature of the dreamweaver. Its eyes are mole-like, denoting their lack of necessity.  It has no mouth to speak, and its fingers are more numerous than ours with several more joints per digit.  Its skin is g

I was walking without purpose. The white world in which I strode dimmed, gained contrast, and finally became night. I found myself on a hardened path that wound between sand dunes; it radiated coolly beneath the night sky.  Idly, I turned my gaze to the right.  Dunes high and low, and where they weren't high more dunes could be seen beyond.  To my left, the dunes tapered to an ocean shore.  I breathed in, the slight chill was welcome and the characteristically salty air wove my senses.  My hands, right then, were hands, and my own; the familiarity comforted me.  I shoved them in my pockets and continued on. I like it here.  With that though