Like a diaphanous nightgown, language both hides and reveals.
We all ended up somewhere with our various uncertain lives flapping about us in tatters and our pockets full of foreign coins.
Teeth of winter, sinking into my flesh, my own clacking against each other like knitting needles, and I wish they'd knit a heavy shawl around my shoulders before widening into a yawn. Why do I always yawn when I'm cold?
Killing time takes practice.
Words themselves are the intimate attire of thoughts and feelings.
We waltzed Lisztlessly.
A pronoun, too, will aptly reflect the number of its antecedent: "they" does not refer to one person, no matter how many personalities she or he has, or how eager you are to skirt the gender frays.
Time is the mother and mugger of us all.
Art is only abstract when you look the other way.
Either I've been missing something or nothing has been going on.
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