Visitor On A Summer Evening

You were standing at the sink, doing the dishes, and you were beautiful. The setting sun was casting a dusky yellow light on your face, and you were humming to yourself.

I drove 300 miles to come see you, and I didn't even tell you I was coming. I didn't even know if you wanted to see me.

I took a step or two forward, reached out, almost touched you, but stopped. You were oblivious, I moved too softly and the floor was too well built for creaking. I ached to say something, but- I left you, and you had recovered, and who was I to wreck that?

I turned sharply away, and you spun around in shock. I ran from the room, through the hallway, and burst out the front door. As I jumped into my car and drove off, I could see your pale, frightened face staring after me out the screen door.

I hope this puts to rest all your fears about that man who snuck up on you in your kitchen that one evening, darling. He was no predator, or ghost. Just someone who had made a mistake. I love you.

My Only Sunshine

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when the sky is grey
I can never tell you how much I love you
So please don't take my sunshine away

The other night dear, I lay sleeping
And I dreamt I held you in my arms
I smelled your scent so sweet, and felt your hair on my face
But when I awoke I saw it was a mistake and I cried

I will make you happy, if I can
And I will do it every single day
Through the good times and the bad, even when I'm cranky
So darling, please don't take my sunshine away

And if you do, dear, it will be cloudy
And I shall drown myself in the rain
The drops shall stand in for my tears
And the mountains will echo the song of my pain

If The Romans Lived In Glass Houses

If home is where the heart is, I live inside my chest. And if I am unable to lie convincingly, people can see right through me. Therefore, I have a chest made of glass. Also, if my chest is glass, the rest of me therefore must be too. So, we have established beyond all doubt that I am an organism of living glass, seeing as I cannot lie convincingly. And as my chest is my home, I live in a glass house.

I have a garden with rocks in it, and every day I spend at least 7 hours forcing myself to not throw them, to leave the rocks in the garden, to not pick them up and pitch them and watch the panes come crashing down, like a shower of brittle snow, beautiful and sharp and dangerous, but mostly beautiful.

There Was An Empty Pack Of Cigarettes And A Bottle In The Photobooth, And I Wonder..

The girl in the photobooth polaroid liked kittens. She had brown hair, and liked to wear flowers in it. She had brown eyes. She liked wearing a faded print dress with flowers and sparrows on it. She liked tea with a lot of milk, and sometimes coffee so strong almost anybody else would spit it out as soon as it touched their tongue. She had smooth teeth, with slightly bigger than average spaces. She had a beautiful smile. Her laugh was musical. She could play the guitar, sing, and keep time with handclaps or a tambourine. Her skin was soft, and her body gave back just as much heat as it took. She was full of love, and never harmed anyone or anything.

The boy in the photobooth polaroid had bad breath, a weak chin, and in all fairness was kind of an asshole.

Arthur Brown, 22, Plays The Guitar And Sings

The thawing clothing smells disgusting, but it's a job. Playing music in a cafe in a mountain town, full of skiers, snowboarders, snow-shoers, photographers, lovers, miscellaneous people. Besides, my car is busted and I can't find anybody to fix it. It's rusting out in back of the motel that I've become a permanent visitor to.

Oh well. It may not be the greatest, but it's a life. At least I'm making a living playing music, I hadn't thought I was ever gonna be able to do that.

But my feet are cold and my shoes are soaked from the slush in the streets and I don't know any of these people and I don't care about them and I've got nothing back at my room and my car's a wreck and I've got nothing at home, and I don't even think I've got a home any more, and you know what? I don't care about anything, and I don't want to be here, I want to be anywhere *but* this godforsaken town of shallow, beautiful people.

My acts' on in ten minutes, I oughta put that emotion into my next song.

If Car A Is Moving At 139 KPH Towards Car B...

The dotted yellow line got eaten up by the hood of the car. Its appetite was ravenous, apparently; the dots were only visible in the screen of the windshield for a second or two before they were consumed. The car moved quickly, quickly, a bullet shot by its own impetus.

The sun gleamed down, reflecting off the body of the car. It was a hot day, and the air felt as if it could reach out and burn somebody.

Suddenly the appetite for dots was filled; the car veered into the other lane, and appeared to want to eat another car. Cannibalism!, screamed a lone cloud in the sky.

A person cried in shock and alarm. Then there was silence.