Life, love, philosophy, horses, and cars.
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I knew a man whose home was decorated with the art of horses. Watercolor equines pencilled mares rearing stallions dark oil eyes desert skies and knotted manes an earthy passion, a full blooded sunset windswept coats and a rumbling nicker from the chest of an untamed soul. And when I asked him, did he ride? He said no, I am just an admirer And I thought, good on you Because painted horses are like…
What is that sound? Is that the sound of love escaping the room?
There was always a strange, unspoken dialogue between us that had never really resurfaced except in the thought bubbles of our personal graphic novels.
We have shared out, like thieves, the amazing treasures of days and nights.
I can feel my toes crushed up against the tip of my shoe, mashing the pedal to the floor, not coming up for air.
“Did you ever believe in magic?” he asked.
One hoof at a time
Get your own, shithead.
An exercise in mediocrity
I've been seeing a Portuguese man for a little over a month now, quite casually, as I'm not sure of either of our intentions and also because I never have the time.
