on tales of the occult
a nostalgic celebration in warm harmattan winds
What are tears for?
No one knows what happened.
Striking a lighter may be the most intimate contact of my day.
In the photo she had been shouting so hard the veins on her neck stood out.
“It’d be interesting to know why this perfume is so important to you,” my shrink said.
“Hallelujah,” she said the last word, drawing it out