If Wishes Were Horses, Beggars

Garden Work Clears The Mind.

Places Do Not Lose Their Identity, However Far One Travels. It Is The Heart That Begins To Erode Over Time. The Face In The Hotel Mirror Seems Blurred Some Mornings, As If By Too Many Casual Looks. By Ten The Sheets Will Be Laundered, The Carpet Swept. The Names On The Hotel Registers Change As We Pass. We Leave No Trace As We Pass On. Ghostlike, We Cast No Shadow.

This Isn't The First Time The World Has Come To An End, And It Won't Be The Last Either.

Happiness. Simple As A Glass Of Chocolate Or Tortuous As The Heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

I Like Literature That You Respond To In Some Way. You Laugh, You Cry, You Turn The Light On - That's Great, It's Eliciting A Response By Proxy.