A thousand butterflies swarm the blooming lavender. The swish of wings little more than a hush of silence. Flitting to and fro supping from the waning nectar and Gleefully bounding away in to the sunset to Find a perch whereupon to spend the coming night.
A magnificently honest rendering of low self esteem.
Some memories never fade, only get lost in the well of time.
The road to hell ain't nothin' compared to the road for a flight delayed.
“Letters are the most intimate form of travel.”
My emerging savior complex rears it's heroic head.
Mademoiselle, you are a woman not finished — nor even as you are, like the river is never the same, but never ends, you too are always becoming.
Where the wheels pause, the world waits.
Stark raving madness this way lies
Your Wolf spent the week at a writer's workshop. His FIRST writer's workshop.