Desert Palace

For thousands of years people have remained unconvinced

magicmolly:

Charming man, do you—could you?—know that I am spying on your solitary Sunday? From thirty-six inches away I watch you eat French toast and post on SurvivorSucks.com. I note your lintless sweater and the slackening waistband of your jeans (good thing you will finish that toast) and your wet hair; your socks that have lost their elastic and bundle like inner tubes at your ankles; your neutral expression and willingness to be alone.