a black bat flies out of my street as i enter on my bicycle. how is this night going to end? will my head hit the pillow and flow forth a stream of peculiar dreams? darker that the bat's breath? or will my bicycle topple into the river of silent night, chain and bell complacent in the murky stream?
am i weaker than a gust of wind or stronger than a snowstorm? fighting bouts of laughter, or too serious for the library? an ocean, or fog on the window? breakfast or lunch? none of my stories make sense, anyway, but i hope the light is strong and warm and a small gust won't topple me.
