I cannot give you a house perhaps neither a home but on whim and whimsy a dancing word a shining hollow stone stacking ever subtly each glance the mirror trace till age and ire and truth stack up my stoned and hollow face
Isn’t it only the indulgent man who can disdain himself enough to muster the hatred to look for the ugliness inside him—some men even with a grin and gallows humor?
The Prodigal