Coffee smells, revised poetry, grass obscuring the light. We come to the basement in order to make contact with language. Sleep poorly or not at all (for how long).
Well, there are other ways to get the message. He sat folded in the shape of an apple, tending to that dulcet inner voice which was never entirely absent. Consistency is one ticket but perhaps there's another.
Or a cider press maybe? The books were overwhelming and thus numerous yet she remained in attendance. Later, a novice.
The going got tough (hence art). The water pipes were all rusty (hence craft). Bluets always seem to be falling in love or is it just me.
First draft is just a draft but so is the last one. Magic works sometimes too. All the gifts my grandfather gave me are lined up on a shelf but won't be always.
We are ended. Like God I begged for a new beginning and was given it over and over. Coffee does smell pleasant alongside sweet sausages fried in butter, bits of egg sticking to their skins.
Your shell is my new lyric, lover. Poor Sappho indeed.