Writing
Musings
The Quiet
Her eyes, a mirror of her will and dreams, it draws you in
I have never seen the ruins of a cathedral yet, somewhere, it sings to me
You know freedom or at least have experienced or imagined it. It is describable really.
He looked up at me with drunken apathy
I stirred awake
It is another beautiful moon.
I live amongst the stars and draw breath each time a star dies
As I watched a broken-hearted old man nurse a glass of whiskey, I thought to myself
I don't think I would like it in the ground
I worry.