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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.

tomorrow only knows

the nightmare is just beginning

the little prophet

agrodolce

surrender

strays

This is where we live

The keys to the kingdom

not now

pinch me - I am Alice

winter, please not yet

I am the hot, I am the cold

hold on, clap hands

none of the buttons work

small change

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best personal blogs