If a group of people, maybe our entire planet, wanted to exit the wormhole, would their desire be enough to make it happen?
As I looked back, they sifted through the air, like ash, and resumed feeding.
Although the price is right, leafing through piles of trash looking for a gem isn’t exactly efficient.
I wonder if all living things need a self-portrait.
Even on the loveliest days, there’s a feeling like the poignancy of watching your toddler waddle across a summer lawn.