Strands of consciousness came and went. Strands flittered about with so many more, past the sheers that breathed in and out and then out the open window. When the sheers breathed some back into the room he caught them with his teeth and sucked them down. He would own them, the strands of others, they were his and they were him.
Strands of hair like spider silk on my pillow. It’s all I have left of her. I want to gather them all up and weave a ring of memory that I can wear forever. At the same time, I want to burn them all, and let the astringent smell smoke out the pain of remembrance.
Strands of hair falls on her face like snow silently falling down a mountain. His hand grazed her cheek and his eye contact made her melt in to his soft brown eyes. He cocked his head like he wanted to say something. But more as if he knew she was going to have the same thought. But instead they just stared at each other staring and the words wishing to escape their lips just got caught up in their brains like tangled strands of hair.
She stands on a hill with her hair blowing in the wind. She pushes the strands out of her face to feel the sunshine. Everything in this moment feels right. Life’s hard decisions and responsibilities temporarily disappear.
It was not my plan to be left by my clan on this bland strand of silky white sand. Branded and stranded I cannot help but be candid and say that I am not a happy man.
There were strands of hair stuck in between the bookshelf and the wall. It had not been moved for years and the various swells of wind and swirls of debris must have kicked them behind the creaky old frame filled by forgotten texts.
She separated out the strands, running her fingers through the fringe. She studied the pattern in the carpet instead of listening to the conversation. A mistake.
“And what are your thoughts, Mallory?”
She glanced up, a little startled. “Huh?”
my wife farts pretty little sounds
why does everything have to be about avocados?
the strands of string
sadly sitting in sadness
a moment sold in spring
the breath she takes in the bathroom
we take a deep breath
goodnight, she said
too much biology
is too much unsaid
Her room is yet again filled with hair strands.
Her depression is getting worse.
She can’t keep her room clean.
And that is unlike her for she used to not be able to stand her bed not being made.
Her hair strands are scattered on the floor. She is helpless.
The strands of her strawberry blonde hair were half braided on the left, but straight on the right. She was pretty. But her hair did the trick. She wasn’t really extra attractive, but, by God her hair was gorgeous. I wish only to feel it on my right elbow as we walk together. Together.
We unwound the carpet untill tere were only starnd of once what was a thing of machine enginuity and productivity. Someone at the party said that it was deconstructionism. Like all things mechanised it was a utility of home broken down to strands to be played with like a child with streamers, ‘like us’ they said ‘forced to be children forever, breaking everyrhing that has been mae and forced to play, bjt never allowed the nievity’ they kind of looked in pain, but I think it was the ice making them sweat and grind their teeth.
They fell out from the tangle of history, twisting around the world and blowing in the breezes. Split, gnarled, burnt, cut, dyed. And we count ourselves fortunate to be among them, draped over the shoulders of the future.
He ran his finger across the waxy grain of the table, skidding a bit at every turn, as her voice kind of poked at his right ear every time she ejected a consonant. It was nighttime. It was always nighttime.
I look over at the brown strands of hair on the ground, and wonder what happened here.. Must’ve been a cat fight. I look back at the person talking to me and realized i didn’t hear anything she said.
When I think of strands, I think of hair, and when I think of hair, I think of trumps hair/wig, because it looks like corn, or a dog, the hair of a horse, or a mop, stuff like that
I couldn’t tell if the last remaining strands of hair on Grandma’s head were white or gold – if the sun hit them right, you could see a flaxen sheen, though again, I wasn’t sure if that was the natural color or not. Still, it was strange to see my grandmother balding while my grandfather had a full head of hair. She covered it up most of the time, wearing a scarf around her head or one of the hats she had knitted over the past four months.
Strands of consciousness came and went. Strands flittered about with so many more, past the sheers that breathed in and out and then out the open window. When the sheers breathed some back into the room he caught them with his teeth and sucked them down. He would own them, the strands of others, they were his and they were him.
Strands of hair like spider silk on my pillow. It’s all I have left of her. I want to gather them all up and weave a ring of memory that I can wear forever. At the same time, I want to burn them all, and let the astringent smell smoke out the pain of remembrance.
strands of her hair are everywhere, and I just found out that Carman supports Trump so goodness, that makes no sense.
Anyway. That’s all I have.
Strands of hair falls on her face like snow silently falling down a mountain. His hand grazed her cheek and his eye contact made her melt in to his soft brown eyes. He cocked his head like he wanted to say something. But more as if he knew she was going to have the same thought. But instead they just stared at each other staring and the words wishing to escape their lips just got caught up in their brains like tangled strands of hair.
She stands on a hill with her hair blowing in the wind. She pushes the strands out of her face to feel the sunshine. Everything in this moment feels right. Life’s hard decisions and responsibilities temporarily disappear.
It was not my plan to be left by my clan on this bland strand of silky white sand. Branded and stranded I cannot help but be candid and say that I am not a happy man.
There were strands of hair stuck in between the bookshelf and the wall. It had not been moved for years and the various swells of wind and swirls of debris must have kicked them behind the creaky old frame filled by forgotten texts.
She separated out the strands, running her fingers through the fringe. She studied the pattern in the carpet instead of listening to the conversation. A mistake.
“And what are your thoughts, Mallory?”
She glanced up, a little startled. “Huh?”
´´ up into the strands , all this is water´´, said the holiday maker
´´ Well! it is just as relaxing here´´, replied the sea dweller
my wife farts pretty little sounds
why does everything have to be about avocados?
the strands of string
sadly sitting in sadness
a moment sold in spring
the breath she takes in the bathroom
we take a deep breath
goodnight, she said
too much biology
is too much unsaid
Her room is yet again filled with hair strands.
Her depression is getting worse.
She can’t keep her room clean.
And that is unlike her for she used to not be able to stand her bed not being made.
Her hair strands are scattered on the floor. She is helpless.
i don’t understrands what you are talking about. please stop talking to me.
Strands before me, Strands behind me. My heart in strands on the floor. No more room for one more Strand.
The strands of her strawberry blonde hair were half braided on the left, but straight on the right. She was pretty. But her hair did the trick. She wasn’t really extra attractive, but, by God her hair was gorgeous. I wish only to feel it on my right elbow as we walk together. Together.
Strands of his sun lit hair bounce around as he hovers above me trying desperately to tickle me. I fall a little more in love.
We unwound the carpet untill tere were only starnd of once what was a thing of machine enginuity and productivity. Someone at the party said that it was deconstructionism. Like all things mechanised it was a utility of home broken down to strands to be played with like a child with streamers, ‘like us’ they said ‘forced to be children forever, breaking everyrhing that has been mae and forced to play, bjt never allowed the nievity’ they kind of looked in pain, but I think it was the ice making them sweat and grind their teeth.
They fell out from the tangle of history, twisting around the world and blowing in the breezes. Split, gnarled, burnt, cut, dyed. And we count ourselves fortunate to be among them, draped over the shoulders of the future.
He ran his finger across the waxy grain of the table, skidding a bit at every turn, as her voice kind of poked at his right ear every time she ejected a consonant. It was nighttime. It was always nighttime.
strands of hair fell over her eyes. They were red, glowing in the sun, like a line of fire criss- crossing her face.
I look over at the brown strands of hair on the ground, and wonder what happened here.. Must’ve been a cat fight. I look back at the person talking to me and realized i didn’t hear anything she said.
Wet strands of her hair were flipping around her face. Rain has been stronger and stronger as she was walking down the street.
When I think of strands, I think of hair, and when I think of hair, I think of trumps hair/wig, because it looks like corn, or a dog, the hair of a horse, or a mop, stuff like that
I couldn’t tell if the last remaining strands of hair on Grandma’s head were white or gold – if the sun hit them right, you could see a flaxen sheen, though again, I wasn’t sure if that was the natural color or not. Still, it was strange to see my grandmother balding while my grandfather had a full head of hair. She covered it up most of the time, wearing a scarf around her head or one of the hats she had knitted over the past four months.