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the white table

The days are not long. The nights are short. Guitars are hiding in cases, with scraps of paper tucked inside. The pen is full. There is a fresh notebook, with creamy pages. The little white desk is in the middle of the living room, a cascade of receipts and laundry perched on it.

I clean it off, have lunch as it stares back at me. This focal point, this fulcrum where my thoughts become real, this cheap folding table from Ikea. It is familiar, and patient.

the year of the rabbit (is never over)

How to believe in shooting stars

nothing

panthers, crows and sparrows

red pen, red blanket

the only thing that matters is what is in the picture

the zoo

two steps back, one step forward

this is the city

pictures (some from the windows)

in-between (there is no name)

How to drink coffee

the chapter to finish

the idiots and the children

Finish all of your soup and then you can have spaghetti

tooth fairies and curly fries (the torture museum)

Wake up, no Katz's

the first day (a dress rehearsal)

best personal blogs
best personal blogs