Writers Are Also Sort Of Like Vultures,

It Was A Kiss Small In Its Ministrations But Epic In Its Feeling.

The Glow Dies Down, And She's Standing At The End Of My Bed--the One Who's Been Following Me Around Leaving Feather Messages. I Take In The Torn Fishnets, Plaid Mini-kilt, Shiny, Riveted Breastplate With Leather Straps At The Sides And A Worn Great Temolo Decal Near The Left Shoulder. Her Wings Are A Crazy Black-and-white-checkered Pattern, Like They've Been Spray-painted At A Body Shop To Look Like Hipster Sneakers.

She Wished She Were As Inconsequential As The Ghosts In Her Dreams.

The Hand You Hold The Longest Is Your Own.

Sitting In My Favorite Coffeehouse With A New Notebook And A Hot Cup Of Java Is My Idea Of Heaven.