The dust motes drift languidly Like they have nowhere to be.

Tenuous grasp though It may seem,

This one's not a clever metaphor. It's a diatribe against being a moron.

a little nihilism

We are so busy putting on faces, we are never real with one another.

“He's NO Hemmingway!”

This was a reported exchange

Driving home through the countryside as the sun set,

Some time ago, we were speaking with friends who proclaimed ‘we miss you, it’s as if a piece of our heart were missing.’

Butterflies rest when it rains

Looking for special things inside