there’s an art to arguing with inanimate objects. take my toaster, for example. It burns my toast every time, and yet I keep using it, each morning a battle of wills. you could call it a dysfunctional relationship.
in the heart of a desert, the relentless sun casts long shadows. yet, every dusk, the moon appears, a silent pact between light and dark — a promise of a shared sky.
In the quiet hours, he writes letters he’ll never send. Each word, a hushed confession, each sentence, an act of reaching out to the ghost of a lover. There’s a strange kind of commitment to such heartache.
A man sits alone at the bar, fishing rod in one hand, drink in the other. Each tug, each ripple on the surface, is a dance with the unseen, a silent battle, a promise of what’s to come.
in the intricate embroidery of moments, one thread pulls another. each stitch is a vow of fidelity, connecting us to an endless tapestry of time, an unyielding commitment to existence.
Consider a moth to a flame. The mesmerizing dance, the inevitable attraction, each wing beat an act of surrender. What’s life but a series of compelling entanglements?
The students showed their lack of engagement with the subject matter of the lecture. They sat back in their chairs and the girls in the back of the room painted their nails while chatting with their friends in the front. It was very demoralizing ot the teacher and she wondered what she could do differently, other than quitting altogether.
I’ve never had an engagement, as in marriage. It’s something I’d love to have, as long as it was followed by a good marriage. Make that a great marriage!
there’s an art to arguing with inanimate objects. take my toaster, for example. It burns my toast every time, and yet I keep using it, each morning a battle of wills. you could call it a dysfunctional relationship.
in the heart of a desert, the relentless sun casts long shadows. yet, every dusk, the moon appears, a silent pact between light and dark — a promise of a shared sky.
In the quiet hours, he writes letters he’ll never send. Each word, a hushed confession, each sentence, an act of reaching out to the ghost of a lover. There’s a strange kind of commitment to such heartache.
you left
me
breathless
which led me
to the altar
where you
left
me
altogether
once again
breathless
in the
worst
way
A man sits alone at the bar, fishing rod in one hand, drink in the other. Each tug, each ripple on the surface, is a dance with the unseen, a silent battle, a promise of what’s to come.
in the intricate embroidery of moments, one thread pulls another. each stitch is a vow of fidelity, connecting us to an endless tapestry of time, an unyielding commitment to existence.
Consider a moth to a flame. The mesmerizing dance, the inevitable attraction, each wing beat an act of surrender. What’s life but a series of compelling entanglements?
The students showed their lack of engagement with the subject matter of the lecture. They sat back in their chairs and the girls in the back of the room painted their nails while chatting with their friends in the front. It was very demoralizing ot the teacher and she wondered what she could do differently, other than quitting altogether.
I’ve never had an engagement, as in marriage. It’s something I’d love to have, as long as it was followed by a good marriage. Make that a great marriage!