I remember a particular summer many years ago, when my Dad was still alive ( Read more... )

There's broken glass on the kitchen floor. From where I dropped a glass, not in drunkeness but arthritis. I still haven't picked it up yet even though on this morning's journeyings through the kitchen I could hear the tiny pieces crunching. There's something almost pleasing about broken glass, its jaggedness ( Read more... )

Bleh ( Read more... )