it’s the thankless jobs that we think about the least that we need the most
it doesn’t take much for lines to get blurred; a small obstruction will do
in the dark stillness as the heat of the day leaves one bell won’t do it
a hard-worn surface tells the story of life, yet we paint it over
it says “open” but i’m guessing that it is not an invitation
there’s a certain peace you only achieve when in a place you call home
in the end, we are the sum of all our stories make up some good ones
if you stare too long at the exact same thing, can you trust what you see?
there are things we see that may not really be there then again, maybe?
the most-used letter in the english language is never used alone
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