The Last Waltz in the Galaxy There is nothing left. We have reached the end of the world. A giantess, blank paper page extends in every direction like a 1980’s dream.
sometimes i deserve a capital I everyone loves a writer, loves to watch paper fill as a pencil moves in blurring. it’s a sub-conscious fascination. it’s why she smokes that way…
innocent wallpaper through the wall, i can hear a family failing next door. a couple in the thirties, nearly, average intelligence. i think they drink. they stopped fighting
painting for lemonade an ancient man, brittle on a wooden stool, slowly painting his gate-post. a day of raw sunshine, but autumn will soon roll over the horizon. by winter the