this paper is cold underneath my fingertips grating and i'm shifting thoughts like puzzle pieces.
so many writers have commented on sunlight slanting curling around motes of dust. thousands of similar phrases: sadness, the flat gray of mid-january mornings, love, hips, the night sky, clocks.
who knows how to articulate the feeling of being a high school senior feet anchored in waterproof boots surrounded by a clogging, dragging stagnancy
breathe and you fog up the glass four flat tires-- a lit up exclamation point on the dash. let's pull off the road route 9, 10, 11, numbers, letters signs bent by the plow, and the pavement's salted and the trees chilled quiet wow, look here-- a seedy gas station and an out of order pump.
just paint me a picture of a graham ******* trail.
"you know sometimes when i'm walking back from lunch and its windy i like closing my eyes and stretching my arms out and pretending i'm somewhere else preferably a place with less buildings and more trees"*
*"well said. if that isn't a story then i don't know what is."