You built castles with her and now you she is gone.

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

I want to draw them like my french girls.

How she is quiet before his robe falls

Tenuous grasp though It may seem,

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