A man smiling to himself is the meteor of misunderstood waiting room conversations.
A woman whistling is the bullfighter of a disappointing moon.
A boy throwing a ball against a wall is the burning history of losers.
A girl braiding her hair is the yearlong relevance of the Pony Express.
Last night, the southwest coast of Italy was devastated by a frown turned upside-down.
We waited three days for the death of a Florentine pedagogue to arrive. It smelled Protestant.
I'll let you know as soon as peregrinations find their summer abyss.
You'll be the first to be first. People will wish on you. |
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