817.

Try as she might, she could not thinking about ants.

816.

Ashes on the forehead, a reminder that we are dust.

815.

Her MacBook was quiet, so quiet that she couldn't tell that it was breathing, except for the throbbing white light.

814.

I can't read her blog. It makes me jealous of everything I'm not.

813.

A ball of sock cuddled in the cup of a bra.

812.

Gone are the days of wind-up clocks, where time moved languid and progressively slow.

811.

She wore a ring so that she could fidget when she needed to.

810.

Sealed with a kiss.