A famous author and an inspired writer meet at a coffee shop, both looking for inspiration. The patrons there don’t know if this meeting is by accident or design, but they are in awe of Fame.

The careful paths of larger versions gave me enough time to think, to sense their fears from pauses between footsteps, and prepare those minutes, hours, weeks before they decomposed into my whole.

My love for him like wax wings/ so long they stretched eternal— beating in the sky, grazing peaks,

[CAUTION: "DISINTEGRATION OF THE FUNCTIONING PSYCHE," IS, APPARENTLY, A "DEEPLY PERSONAL" EXPERIENCE!"]

The DC-9 bounced in the turbulence over the north Pacific waking the dozing Ben Clarone.

The moonlight illuminated Dahlia’s bare breasts. She remembered when Gerard used to appreciate them.

She had plain features suggestive of a Native American, which in fact, she was, partly, and she rarely wore makeup of any kind. She easily might have been indistinguishable in a moving crowd except for her loping gait and a tendency to move her hands arou

The old man behind the counter recognizes fear and anxiety in the boy's face, and sees the brown paper bag clenched in his other white-knuckled hand.

Nick frowned, the changing of the leaves reminding him of the graying of his hair.. He'd never appreciated the colors of fall, as they heralded frost, winter, which he hated more and more each passing year.

The limbs lift again,

Half way through our cigarettes she told me her name was Charlotte.

You need buttered broths and to copy old writings by hand by very poor light.

There was something in the pressure and the urgency that made her smile, and then laugh. It was like carrying heavy furniture while someone made a joke--the effectiveness of the joke seemed directly proportional to the weight of the furniture. What was it

We all// fall short and fail.

She catches my head in a leg scissors and says for me to say Ninja Uncle. Instead, I bite into her flesh that only remotely tastes like a soft salt pretzel.