The sum of my years has been spent knowing your body and learning the puzzle of how we fit and connect into each other.
The plane of your flank flush with my arm. 191 more words
“This pen, this perfectly innocent pen.”
So said Harold Pinter. Going by the news in Paris yesterday when masked gunmen stormed into the offices of Charlie Hebdo and killed, among others, cartoonists, editors, and journalists. 1,250 more words
There was a time I used to write letters. I would write one a day, sometimes, more. I would write with anything I could find; pens and pencils, with crayons, eye liner pencils, chalk, charcoal, markers, permanent and impermanent. 612 more words