It is a swirling storm that reigns my thoughts.
I would normally bake two dozen butter tarts, because you loved them.
They say: Don’t judge your beginning or middle, against someone’s end.
These are silent times.
He said his day’s been… rough. I know what he means.
I watched her disarm a bomb.
Angry words spoken,
with fingers in personal space.
Days grow darker.
It’s hard to get up.
“I’m a mistaker,” he says, stopping me cold in my steps, all my attention on that small sentence.
It finally arrived
Does anyone have tips for managing your multiple projects? Architecture or not.
What has me so lost?
It tickles the lobes,
teases time and space,
of wish and reality
Did I forget to say
I love you?
I don’t feel super today.
Has it gotten so bad?