Disassociating, Mindfulness, Transcendence-whatever The Label-it's A Sort

As Fleeting Emotions Stalk It, A Face Can Leak Fear Or The Guilt Of A Forming Lie.

There Is A Furnace In Our Cells, And When We Breathe We Pass The World Through Our Bodies, Brew It Lightly, And Turn It Loose Again, Gently Altered For Having Known Us.

Writer's Block Is A Luxury Most People With Deadlines Don't Have.

Home Is Where The Heart Is, We Say, Rubbing The Flint Of One Abstraction Against Another.

Violets Smell Like Burnt Sugar Cubes That Have Been Dipped In Lemon And Velvet.