A working man is a lazy man, his soul crushed literally by the weight of the salt mines that have collapsed on him.
There’s only time left to snuggle and run errands. Walks are for a purpose beyond entertainment.
The sun sets earlier and rises later, and the heat of our Indian Summer has been slaughtered by White Man Winter.
Under the covers, the working man daydreams of five year plans, zombies, and Lego blocks.
He doesn’t have energy for taking photos, or working on secret projects. But he wishes he did.
My patented mold maker.
Reflected legion light.
The majesty of art.
Original, rejected, lyrics to Britney Spears’s first hit song.
Bee on a paper flower.
A painted drain cover.
M speaking at the Oakland Library.
J, the master quilter.
When a male tree sees a pretty female tree.
The backside of the Balboa Theater.
Patched pink cracks.
A confusing marker.
A bold girl.
Subterranean delivery ramp.
Webbed fence cover, covered with web.
Quick, let’s jack it.
A raven eating bread.
A new trail through the Presidio.
I had a mushroom THIS BIG.
A path down to the beach.
Melted honey bucket.
Double safety rail.
Quick, hide the car behind the bougainvillea!
Brussels sprout pizza: healthy?
It’s already the end of October and still no one woke me up when September ended.
I’m looking in your direction, Billie Joe.