Flying is dangerous, Lydia. I don't want to die today, do you?
I guess not.
Another family story. I can’t get away from it. As Easter approaches, I find myself thinking about one of my aunts who, when it came to transportation, had only known the transportations of
When we consume ourselves, of course / we think no one cares enough to watch.
I'm just like everyone else... A person drinking coffee...
When I was fifteen, I started receiving letters from Division I baseball coaches about the possibility of joining them on such and such Elysian Field and helping the squad reach its goal, which
I trace the windup with my elbow, my arm like a wing
unfurling, red lace licking off my feathertips.
“I thought it was boring,” he told me, “partly because I'd just learned English. But learning the language and the terminology and how the game is played was the big change.”
You could tell Heather was a catcher by looking at her thighs, but she brought an infielder's mitt to the game that day.
Here in Philadelphia, there’s a comfortable familiarity in the air, a sense of impending mediocrity to which every lifelong Phillies fan has grown accustomed. The bandwagon is empty, the ride over.
David
Could be anyone by now. I hope he's okay. I hope they're all okay.
On 14 September 1990, Ken Griffey Sr. hit a home run, and Ken Griffey Jr., the very next batter, also hit a home run, making them the only father–son combo in Major League Baseball history to hit
I learned about @DidMetsLose2Day because someone I followed retweeted a post.
We were homeless. We stole blankets, sheets. We took provisions. We carried our houses inside us.
These Austrian cows
lying down vaguely chewing
grass what are they think
