Chugging along on a wing and prayer, I stopped at the candy store and gave old Mrs. Harrington her birthday present—a fifth of bourbon. She kissed me a little more enthusiastically than I wanted, but I do know how she loves her bourbon. She smokes those little cigarillos all day long and that leaves the… Continue reading James Tate
Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself. ― Franz Kafka
Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted. — Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC, June 17, 2004) Originally published 1820.