People often make decisions based on where they’re from not where they are
Their hike had been illuminated with the reflection of falling snow, but seemingly at once, the sun plunged beneath the unending expanse of heavy pines for the night. Evelyn’s eyes, so sharp in the daylight, strained to focus on the disappearing path under her feet. No longer was the forest a paradise, it had quickly become a frigid hell. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, to check on Beau. They had been out here for too long, trying to find the cabin that Caleb had offered them for a week while Beau was on winter break. Caleb had promised it was only a thirty-minute hike into the woods, and that it was fully stocked with food and supplies for seven days.
A worn field of cross-hatching cotton and polyester wraps around a dark, empty space. The field encloses the space on all sides but one, and a low, narrow ridge runs from the open edge down to the single point where all the sides of the field converge, giving form to a textile cone. The cone’s surface is flexible and changes its shape. Sometimes it inflates and other times it deflates. Sometimes it’s completely flat, but at other times it’s marked with geometric bodies. This is my pocket.
I take myself out on dates a lot
we go to dinner
and the movies
sometimes I buy myself flowers
and leave myself notes
and as I eat little chocolates
I tell myself to have a great day—
that I’ll see myself soon
It was a morning of a thick, omnipresent fog that lay across the entire city, suffocating the light from above, leaving no block safe from penetration. It was a fog ominous enough that Neil Bittle, peering sheepishly from his bedroom window, was nearly prevented from taking his morning bicycle ride…but no! Neil took the mindset of a mailman when it came to his bicycle, for neither rain, sleet, nor snow could prevent him from feeling the wind in his cold, pale face as he cruised along the boardwalk, leaving pedestrians in the proverbial dust. “So long, you bloody chumps!” Neil would barely be able to resist shouting at the top of his lungs, which would tingle with pleasure–and oxygen. No lousy fog would prevent him from this ecstasy.
A new room with an old bed.
A mattress on the floor.
Count the 1000 threads
above and so
(to run out of ways)
to forgive another person.