A vain venue for solipsistic sophists, verbal voyeurs, lubricious logorrheics, and serial-comma lovers.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
Shards of robin's eggshell on the sidewalk brick. That robin's egg blue, so called: a teal of bright sky with speckles sleeping. No remains of the egg. An incomplete mosaic. Shrapnel of life, as well as death. On Plum Street. By Solar. Remnants of rain. Beads on windshield. Hint of the hint of sun behind dusky cumulus. The suggestion of buds on branches. This day.