Trickles Seldom do trickles of sweat gather round one's eyebrows in contrast to a myriad trickles of vapour round a chalice of ice cold drink in a hot and humid landscape. In contrast, In the land of frost and ice where sweat is scarce to come by and man's tears dry up the moment they trickle out of the eye pod's in paranoid shame of discovery, as if the scarlet buds forever sworn to darkness might be exposed beyond the velvet curtains that should forever conceal them from the light if day. Man's vulnerability and his tears are his most private parts.

On Writing A builder doesn't have builder's block. So why should writers have theirs? Such is the opinion of someone I saw on TV. According to them, one should start writing immediately and the thoughts will flow. For the art of writing is such that it is a reflection of the ebbs and flows of man's mind, much like the sun glittering in myriad crystal jewels on the surface of a blue reservoir, where the words are a million stars on a clear night's sky...an astronomer's dream...a playwright's tears...or the organic machinations of a psychotic individual's mind in storms and brews of froth and fire, followed by smoke.

Lass Over The Canyon When there is word to be scribbled on the dry clay surface amidst explosions of dust and red sand that flow from the tanned grand canyon, overlooked by the shapely form of a girl yet but nineteen with blonde hair dressed in a cavewoman's fibre weavings, all that feels eager in the heat of the moist summer is warm sweat drying cool in the temperamental breeze amidst the smell of her shapely tempest.