I am not up in time to catch the moon flower blossoms open.

The puppy leaps onto the chair and lies enthroned there.

I throw the red ball and nobody chases it.

He tells me his dream in which I am the cray cray bitch.

The printed page allows a different sort of editing. I am pen-happy.

Something keeps me from taking even the smallest step forward. I wonder what relationship there is between The Hanged Man and Thursday. Nothing obvious. It just feels true.

The grace of being allowed to sit stewing, making no obvious progress.

He is blue and I can’t save him. He says he never thought he looked his best in that shade. But I like it. 

She excuses herself to check the text’s ping, then gives me the whole saga of her battle with cable tech support, drowning out the calming music as she sticks the needles in.

He tells me how I should do my hair. I bite his head off. Cray Cray.