All my words are turning into pictures again, but my pencils are turning into keyboards. It's pesky business.

It's strange, this skidded knee feeling. I like it, 'cause it means I fell, which means I must have been doing something worthwhile to get my knees all scraped up. It tickles and itches since it's healing, but still, something is amiss, like there's a line in my skin that wasn't there before.

Too bad Shiva didn't feel like donating a few of her arms to the needy artists, we'd be in business, let me tell you.

Could we sit for awhile, across from each other sometime? I'd like to trace the arc of your smile.

My fingers are clay sausages.