The Writer on Image Street

In the city where I live I live in a clock museum where towered glass and hammered steel rise like the second coming. There are magic things, rainbow believers that consume the wind of my tongue my mind a well of musical gifts my blood dried on ancient parchments. Someplace where it's quiet listening to the Atwater-Kent the smooth voice of Barbra Streisand the writer at his formulation desk.

Dinosaurs on the windowledge balance like a heritage of hungry angels there is a reason for this grace.

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK