At kesterly 's house. She's asleep. I will be soon. Cutting out the last bit of her chemise pattern for Halloween.

* * * * * * * * * *I should write a poem in the rhythm of an instrumental jazz song. The palpitations are like punchy, concise speech. "Why'd you walk away? You never listen to what I say. Wait! Wait! W-w-w-wait! (stuttering trumpet ( Read more... )

I'm ready for trick-or-treaters ( Read more... )