“Using white chalk, In the night, she scratched his name on the coarse gray wall, telling her love, describing its never ending nature, its eternal flow. It lasted, clinging like salve, until the rain came—a small morning storm, really—washing it away forever. The wet powder raced through the gutter like a white penny, rolling toward the river, the sea, eternity.” Christopher Bryson
“What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it’s curved like a road through mountains.” A Streetcar Named Desire, Tennessee Williams
Last pull on the smoke, last coffee, before the shift starts.