Christmas crows quick black shadows pass by the skylight; hints of yesterday peeling away, to a pale grey sky beneath, left wanting, heavy with the promise of questions.

not sure what time of day it is any longer---not sure which self to act with these days---not sure which part of this individual is broken up into the most pieces, but each piece seems to

the self-fulfilling prophet who estimates situations & then switches their own perspective so as to suit the outcome--- operating within the same lens of which they already

rather than be seen as “the type that gets angry,” as “the type that loses his/her cool,” as “the misanthrope,” “the psychotic,” “the miserable bitch,” “the

Two mates play their favorite bar game in a north London pub.

A man stumbles upon a particularly revealing plaque on a park bench in London, and sits to contemplate it.

I have written a 10,000 word novella, titled “The Dainty”, set in 1969 Detroit; One day in an Irish Pub, and that day is Christmas Eve. The dysfunctional denizens of The Dainty plow through a fierce snowstorm, cocktails, and their personal baggage as Christmas Eve plays out before them.

If we exist why do we exist? If so then what is its rhyme or reason? Enjoy writing friends.

aha !