My Norwegian angels.
Two-dimensional
and complicated.
It's complicated.
No me,
but the balloon.
Life is made up of
sharp points
on dull sticks.
Bald of bark.
Bulging and bleached.
Orphan wood.
It was hot and sour soup.
Or chili.
It's impossible to remember every taste.
My bestselling autobiography:
"Loitering Through Life."
Available only on Mars.
Drinking baby oil
in Thailand.
Don't ask.
Families are like milkweed pods;
either packed too close together
or drifting too far apart.
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