Scalding tea screams at my left hand. The elevator hums toward the heavens as I collect smiles from suits and ties, cufflinks and pomade.
27.
Ding.
Home is a mouse with a long tail. “You’ve Got Mail” is the enticing nectar of the gods.
Oh hey, Sean. How’s your Mom?
My diploma relaxes nearby.
Sunlight sprints between steel towers and runs through glass panes and gasps around corners and collapses,
finally,
at my ankles.
But an errant ray crashes into a brown bag. The lettuce sings with earthy charm amidst a chorus of wheat bread and baby carrots. Life occurs.
27.
Ding.
Home is a mouse with a long tail. “You’ve Got Mail” is the enticing nectar of the gods.
Oh hey, Sean. How’s your Mom?
My diploma relaxes nearby.
Sunlight sprints between steel towers and runs through glass panes and gasps around corners and collapses,
finally,
at my ankles.
But an errant ray crashes into a brown bag. The lettuce sings with earthy charm amidst a chorus of wheat bread and baby carrots. Life occurs.
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