Literature

Promises flow in all directions, appointments are not kept; heavy snow fell through the long glowing night by morning it was all swept.

Asleep at last on a mattress of snow. Birth has now ended. While much was true while it lasted, all is fiction now that it is no more.

Few feelings leave more of a bitter taste than that of being used, squeezed dry of vitality and made a cog in some vast machine milking us dry and too blind us to our own misery, shoving in our mouths and minds a bone to chew on, intoxicated by the taste of blood from our own bleeding gums…

He muzzles his way through the glass door inside the cafe, curls up and dozes off.

inhabit there with calm solitude and listen . . .

to grow so light of possessions, quiet as to know a whisper

a blind writer meets a blind reader...