She was, to him, a glade in a desert. She cooled him, refreshed him. He loved the sweet sound of her trembling wetness. He was content in her lush green goodness within the wilderness of love. In the past, he had known other women to not lend themselves to such simple beautiful imagery. They were cinnamon and he was sugar. He found that they were quite

Before he met her, he was intrigued by foreign girls. Of course, if he was in another country where he was the foreigner, he would have been intrigued by local or native girls. It was the way they spoke in broken English, with a strange emphasis on certain words. He loved that they had unique cultures and weren’t good at sharing them because of the language

He wanted her back, he wanted her front, he wanted every part of her. He loved her still, but now with all the intensity of a forest fire. He was burning as a flame the size of a mountain. He was engulfing anything he could of her, just trying to reach her, to take from her, for her to be his fuel. That was how he

He didn’t have a schedule to keep from day to day, just the opposite. He’d meander through the day as it floated loosely around him. The odd time there were little waves of activity in the great pool of hours and minutes, these were caused by the very rare occasion when he HAD to be somewhere. She, on the other hand, was a woman of purpose

His art was words. His words were art. He build castles with these simple amalgams of letters. He raced horses and felled trees. He destroyed cities and sold cotton candy. Anything that could, and many things that couldn’t, be done, he could do with words. The only debate was whether or not he could do these things well. Maybe he lost the races, took way too

He was starving. In his life, up to this point, he was more often hungry than not. She was good at keeping him fed, but, of course, she wasn’t there because of a prior commitment, her job. He held his pen, hovering over the white barren landscape of his page. It wasn’t charged with the power of the sword, it was, as an extension of him,

She took him dancing. He wasn’t the dancing type, because there is a type. He didn’t know how and furthermore, he didn’t understand it. It was a mystery to him that he couldn’t solve even when given all the tools and all the clues. Was it about sex? Was it sexy? Was it about beauty, the beauty in the movement of the human body? Was it

It had been months since he had felt that strange. His head felt like it was filled with concrete that would harden and soften from second to second. He wanted to punch the face of whoever touched his back into the ground. He wished he could chop his arms off, there was nowhere to put them. His legs were numb and felt transparent. His throat felt

He wrote feverishly into the nights, his pen scribbling desperately on the pages. One by one they were used and either discarded or layered onto the growing pile that would transform from a few weak sheets of paper into the power of a play. But it wasn’t out of a great burden for humanity that he wrote it. He didn’t write it to send a message

It was November, not the coldest November he’d ever seen, or felt. It was cold enough, however, for him to be thankful for her warm naked body lying next to him. He remembered those times when his house was dank and cold, he would lie still in one spot until, slowly, his own body heat radiated enough to warm the sheets. Then he would shift and