With an icecream cone in one hand and a pencil in the other, surely all things are possible.
Now the door is you
My father used to say dreams are doors, and memories are the guests who enter. Whether or not we welcome them or let them stay the night, they’re there for a while… we can’t help but feed them.
Memories and dreams
You were wearing white, walking past buildings too brightly lit. You walked past me as though you didn’t see, and how could you? Everything was so light it was blinding. I wanted to follow you, but I was frozen.
Insomnia diary, and other arbitrary thoughts
The lovely and arbitrary poet Bob Hicok once wrote (in his book Insomnia Diary), “I haven’t made anything useful since I filled construction paper with a red sky and green sun and then unrolled my body into a nap.”