Last night I took a midnight walk around the block, which stretched into another six blocks and past several men rhythmically shoveling the sidewalk, as the snow fell and pelted me in the face.
The scrape, scrape, scrape sound of shovel meeting snow and ground the only sound in the frigid air, and a cop car silently making its rounds, my eyes watering. Were they stinging from the cold, or were they shedding tears?
In the eye of the impending storm, me and the frozen streets.
In the eye of the impending storm, me and the frozen streets.
Picasso said that every child is born an artist. Maybe every child is born a poet, it's all about if you choose to remain a poet as you grow older, and allow certain moments, places, people to enliven your senses.
This is a story I read somewhere once several years ago, I forget where, but in the version I read, a woman tried to pass it off as her own work. I mean who does that? I did not know this until I came across it again recently, and realized it was actually written by Douglas Adams. It's a great short story, and because all great stories should be shared - Cookies by Douglas Adams.
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