Poor Imp

Attempting serious over a still childlike heart; dark curling hair, bespectacled; fond of plaids and plaits and her younger brother. Quisp

defenestrate

If you could have tea or coffee with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?

Jozef Kredenc, you know, znachit someone like this: chelovyek shto has too much cigarette, not enough lip. Long lean fellow, ladna but not fast, da? Actually, dyestvityelno , he's Polish. ...

Er ... **Bump** this little bloke of a thread up.

I sit in silence. Isn't that immortality-- Being the present?

Dear Writer, This is how the world ends, not with a whimper -- but a bang! Don't you remember the poem? Well, you put it into the story, credo di ...

Er, because this ought to be bumped, and I have a moment. Character #1 (no details, guess from his pockets/bag): Cigarette rolling paper, crumpled, stained; nano cards, one hopelessly bent; ...

I'm a bit confused. Do you need suggestions for why she might move from mistrust, to trust? As in, what makes her change her mind about him? It might help ...

Only one word says life: do not pass by so quickly. Sound is fugitive in this the graveyard of the seasons and missed, makes changing an ache.

No eyes given leave having followed the wild geese are safe boundaried: and they see more than what's been– ice, dead leaves of summer-speak

dusk at dawning smudged– nothing breaks to stake the day is coming, but still will some gaze, looking for warmth where sky has rubbed out the sun

Erasure, a collapsed face, looking down your own throat Delight

Clere storey, eaves, pre-dawn, between-breaths Faith

Willow, rivers, dawnlight. Extraction