On the way to the harbour’s godown teeming with mountains of mackerel and salmon and trout, dapper kitty forgot not to stop and smell the roses—and eat each one that tickled its snout. ; )

If each cupped hand is a speos for this hardened heart, each one a tomb for arid eras of eros, then your fingers are like the blades that break through sidewalks and stone—and fill vacant spaces with hope for both healing and happiness.

That human being is on a tear of resistentialism again, kicking that poor mowing machine for not starting, which is misplaced blame since I am the one who gnawed the tubes in order to ensure that my greens are whole rather than shreds, a manner in which they provide not only nourishment, but, as well, linens for sleepy-bunny beds. ; )

“They suggest making love instead of war,” inner-dialogued the static, starship-shaped ray. “So, maybe, I should end this sitzkrieg by finding a beaming friend with whom to sea-skate and play.” ; )

Even of the precariat who wait outside doors, upon benches, or against wells of stair, hope and gratitude may be gathered for both self and next steps as expressions of collective care.