8:18
The tiny owl sits silently on my shoulder as it decides when to fly back into the dark forest.
It’s as if all the most stubborn trees have decided, today’s the day.
I am standing at my artwork when the man returns.
At 8:18 tonight, I grip my knife and stare at squares.
To my eye, cemeteries have a solemn beauty. I don’t think that makes me creepy.
It’s a beautiful evening on the National Mall and Jesus keeps reminding me he’s near.
Watching the rain outside, I pray that this solution will work.
The effect of the thrown light in the gallery is dazzling.
I hadn’t expected my journals to elicit a challenge.
If your house caught fire, what one object would you try to save?
Though I can’t find the trail, the white marks guide me.
The piano is an unlikely place to have a revelation about art.
What barriers keep us from seeing God in the world around us?
The sign before me has me asking, “What does it take to be joyful?”
Waiting for me in the ringing chamber are ropes, draped in the air like a giant arachnid.

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