right hand


Late night sounds: keys clicking as I type, the clock ticks, and in the other room, the gurgle, rush, and roar of our dishwasher. Something wooden settles with a soft creak. A bookcase? A floorboard? I don't know. I will myself not to hear the mouse. (No mouse.) In a moment I'll hear the spring move in the clock, the chimes, the hour. And then it will be tomorrow.



my work elsewhere:

my work for sale:

beside myself:

a mini blog made of my recent bookmarks (via del.icio.us)

monthly archives:

Creative Commons License
This blog is licensed under a Creative Commons License.