There is an artist up there with a paintbrush over each sunset in its oranges and purples as it caresses the green of the landscapes the rolling hills dotted with the yellow of dandelions and I breathe in the smell of lilac through open windows and know life cannot be about machines and utility when the very base of its composition is beauty. In mid morning the sun sets again over the same green hills as I drive to the garden and the sun hits my skin warms my bones and I don't need to spin anymore words anymore stories all I could ever say is right here in my palms
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We Are Drowning, How Should We Kill Our Time?
PoetryThis collection of stream of consciousness prose was written during a very special time in my life. I left the city following a massive burnout, and lived in the country for months. I began a garden, cut most of my ties to the outside world, and wro...
