Beware the fox that tells you the headline, and sells you slogans and banners.

Is there a dry cleaner nearby?
Hell, there’s barely a bridge in bridgeville.

So, she shrank my wool jacket– arms out of my sleeves, like a Bassett in a short coat. Gone walking along the van doozen.

The death of books means, what?
Not the end of writing, but, maybe, the end of writers.