No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
The crying fits came without warning. She would be sitting there, having a conversation or staring out into a space – he would often catch her doing that, staring off at some indeterminate point in the distance – when all of a sudden she would buckle over, bury her face into her hands and begin to tremble.
Alex Donaldson shot two videos the morning of the day it all collapsed.
If I were 18, I'd race across black ice parking lots with a crowd of strangers and a stranger holding my hand. We'd fall away into loud forgotten hours...
He was on a student visa from Switzerland learning English. I helped him with slang, and he taught me French.
Josh pressed the nozzle of the spray-paint can and concentrated on the hiss as he sprayed a golden line on the side of the boxcar. Amongst the stationary metal behemoths that frequently acted as his canvases in the train yard, he painted in peace. Just him, the blank walls of metal and that satisfying hiss.
Twenty years married Our lovely Mrs Smith Had a million and one hobbies To please Uncle Smith. From six in the morning Till the late afternoon She spent away baking, Cooking, and cleaning spoons...