flax-golden

the floral post I thought the box on the fence was a proper mailbox because it said “post” but the first outgoing letter I put inside reappeared on my windowsill the next day with

we cannot see our destination but we can see far enough to get there When we reach the shore we debate whether it is a lake or a pond or an ocean or a

impending doom in fluffy coats The fence won’t hold, when it comes down to it. Everyone knows this—the fear is of when and not of if—but it is not a subject for discussion. The fence is only the

the best revenge I made lists of meanings and astrological correspondences but now that I’m in the store I feel lost. There are so many shelves and faced with all the ingredients in separate

undisclosed intentions of departing angels The angels left the cemetery yesterday, I don’t think anyone saw them go except for me. There were other people around but they all seemed preoccupied with thoughts and

lights that guide the way to destinies untold The path is there, somewhere. Or so they tell me. I suspect it is a gentle lie to strengthen my belief. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I