He heard her in his heart – whispering from the mist
…you mean you don’t fit characters into a plot? excatly…
…I live in Ireland every day in a drizzly dream of a Dublin walk…
Light a campfire and everyone’s a storyteller
Your window square a yellow kite, and the Moon a white balloon
you cannot teach art—you cannot make a soul
…there is no map of the soul because we make it up as we go…
… the house is on fire, but go ahead – finish painting the verandah…
…the winter is kind and leaves red berries on the boughs for hungry sparrows…
…we each harbor a shadow self with shadowy motives and murky desires…
…summer softens lines that winter cruelly shows…
…your memory is a warm stone hidden in my hand I’m always turning over…
I see you kneeling in church—stained only by colored windows
…all kinds of images swim like tropical fish in the bathysphere inside my skull …
…futility is being sorry while doing nothing to remove the cause …
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