My husband wears a band wrapped around his head – a long, constantly bobbing pole attached – where all his ideas dangle like carrots, just
“Love,” my grandmother told me, “is a four-letter word.” “She was beautiful as a young woman, and everyone wanted to court her,” her sister explained.
Maybe I just needed a new perspective – like the famed Hanged Man of tarot – committed to some deep, internal need, willed a horizontal
Imagine befriending genius – accepting social awkwardness embracing habitual quirks as incubation for enlightenment. If I could strip down, release preconceived notions, agendas, lie naked,
Ask me how I’m doing and I’ll say “fine”, not because I’m actually “fine” but because “fine” is the only socially acceptable response. If I
I have examined your wallpaper, discussed the scholarly attributes of shades of yellow, traced the edges of your unravelling with my mind, argued the merits