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.
Small glimpses of others' journals are wonderful. The first and third bits especially, here, I like very, very much, Michael. Thanks for posting all these.
ReplyDeleteIt's funny, reading through my journal is like panning for gold. There are slivers of it but you have to turn over a lot of really worthless stuff to find it.
ReplyDeleteThen of course there are the more personal thing that simply would bore most people to death.
Thanks for your comments. I'm glad you enjoyed them.