The heart is painted with thick layers of desire.*Their carts filled with informalities at bargain prices.*The day opened wide as a book opened often, to a favorite page.*Willows hunch, creaking arthritically in gusty breeze.*The subterranean culture swallowed up the past; it is but fumes of sulfur- that residual stench of palpability.*The last day extends a hand, as if to offer some basis to anticipate comfort without suspicion.