I collect parts of myself, ones that roll like coins in a silent room. These are messages hidden in some corner, perhaps under the sofa. I put them in a teacup. No cream or sugar there. And I find the flavor of me again.
I found ten ways of doing nothing. It was the eleventh that did me in.
When you think your destination has reached, become a driver.
I am still reading the book that I am writing.
He was the ink she wrote her love stories with. One day, the bottle rolled over and crashed. Walking to sea, she washed her ink soaked palms. Spreading love everywhere.