Spiral, spin, ride the whirlwind, knowing when the drumming stops, there will be no second dance
Smells Like al-Qaqaa
We are the moon bees, the souls of unborn children
Kiss your pants goodbye, Evil One!
You, with your timid, half-hearted intimacies
This dance is called: Two People, Trying to Occupy the Same Space at the Same Time
What do you mean by 'that pomegranate looks promising'?!
The case for open borders, stated plainly
When the girl is the mission
We should do well to take our lesson from the stars
The Tenth Doctor
dialectical behavior therapy
Parallels in the two Star Wars trilogies
Post-Modern Existentialist Dialectics and Jerry Springer
It is not the voice that commands the story; it is the ear.
The muse is a wicked creature
It was something that sang out while burning itself up, at the risk that nothing would be left.
October 21, 2019
I am writing you at dawn, on a train headed west, a farewell letter to be mailed at the first transfer station, before I head off into parts unknown.
The second hand is stopped just after the four, twitching periodically. Outside, a cold rain.
and the book is writ in stone
to write something here or to contact authors.
Everything2 ™ is brought to you by Everything2 Media, LLC. All content copyright © original author unless stated otherwise.