notes for the human heart
My apartment smells like fried onions and potatoes. Remnants of the sliced onions and potatoes I made last night, at ten pm, when the craving finally intersected with a hunger intense enough to get over the effort it would take to make them. It was a pleasure, then, to slice the onions and potatoes, and… Continue reading simply
If it weren't for Maurice's clockwork A.M. call-to-nature, we both may have slept our last sleep, so to speak. I woke this morning to slowly being poisoned by gas. Walking into my kitchen, immediately I smelled it, and I said out loud, "Is that gas?" while thinking, simultaneously, "no, no, it can't be." My stove… Continue reading open your windows
No Accounting for Happiness 