fyn gula when he was little, he stood in the kitchen, small even for a child, bumping inot tables, stood waiting for the shuffle of his ukrainian grandfather to open the cupboard doors and dip his shaky hand into the china cup. there were quarters inside of it, you see, and this was their pas de deux. from cup to hand, the music of sighs, the patience of saints. and he liked to hear them jingle in his pocket. he paused as the warmth of his hand radiated against the coins, waiting for that look from him, that realm of the senses somehow complete. 010330
marked . 031028
Death of a Rose this is completely weird.

I was walking down the hallway, here at work and heard all the pocket change ajingling in my right pocket. It sounded too loud but a pleasant sort of sound. Then I thought, hey, when I get back to comp I'll write something on blather about the change in my pocket.

lo and behold, it's been found after many dusty months.

I'm going outside for a cig, because that was too weird. Like doing lemons pencil experiment......shiver
Doar and no....the pocket didn't transform into a sows ear or (insert descriptive noun/simile here) 031028
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