Inner musings of a Wayward Writer
The middle of the day feels like the dead of the night, and I’m never so alone as when I’m with you. I don’t remember the exact moment of fracture, but we drifted apart like continental plates; imperceptible up close but forever changing the shape of things. Why can’t we say goodbye? Why can’t we …
All summer long he sat by the docks and sewed. Day after day his little fingers would work as he sewed together cloth to make sails for the local fishermen. For just a handful of pennies, the little boy would make sails as fine and strong as any man who called himself a sailmaker, but …
Writing on Tangents