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Christmas trees striped of finery and thrown to the curbside like so much trash. Like new year resolutions, they never last.
The sour lemon moon hung in firmament: a rancid rind discarded by a gluttonous hand.
There is an indoor art installation at 201 Mulberry constructed of astro-turf, plastic trees, and spotlights colored butter-yellow pink, but the laughing kids in the gallery make it an authentic park.
No one likes to hear complaints. Sometimes, I just want to bellyache to my friends but what I get instead is: So? [Insert Name] has it much worse than you.
No, I’m not a starving Ethiopian child. But sometimes, I still feel as lonely as one.
Today, I saw Santa driving down Adams Street in a black Model-T. Apparently, he’s running a side-operation called Long Hill Carpentry.
I hate the sound of the harpsichord: brittle glass spider legs creeping over my skin.