A weed ain't a weed until you find a flower you don't want.
I don’t know if I was headed home, looking for you, or just swimming on that grassy slope.
Backstroke Sisyphus with sleepy arms and muddied gowns.
Willing myself up them hills.
There was the one year I come across a clearing in the woods just past where the road turned back to dirt and the river back to rocky.
Luke’s friend, Aurora, works the wine couch in that horrible little fashion bar on Lasky just a stagger and a spit from Wilshire.