It was morning, he could tell by how how the buck scrapes glistened. She began each cup of coffee with a little prayer and sweetener. The process was such that any effort to make a story out of or because of it was bound to fail.
The way the shovel leaned it was almost as if it supported the entire west side of the house. Nerves, he explained, or meant to, but nobody was really listening. After they left, the driveway reeked of grease and oil, an oddly comforting smell.
Bright yellow is a type of candy at that type of party. Where castrating bulls all morning made for a bitter kind of later dreaming. The tallest headstone closest to the road is the one you'll want to remember.
Walking on eggshells right into the drama. It's fake, she wrote, but tellingly funny nonetheless. All road signs are indicative of local cultural malaise.
The name's familiar but no I'd have to say I don't think so. Seven shades of lipstick and all in the shape of bullets. Frost on the apple, pumpkins on the vine.
They looked the other way but in concert. This bleeding heart of mine, I'm gonna let it ride. A stack of books that somehow doubled as the lost map of the interior.
You figure into me a complicated way. The grimly bewildered always play another hand.