It's a bit like the Marie Celeste at my place... a half - finished game of Monopoly lies on the dining room table; dirty dishes languish in the sink; a gingerbread maker sits open on the kitchen bench — yes, such things exist in the shops and I ALWAYS FIND THEM — with tubes of writing icing scattered around it; days - ago clothes still hang on the washing line; dust
tumbleweeds drift across the lounge room floor...
Not exact matches
So here's a funny thought that
drifted through the
tumbleweed of my brain as I stood waiting for Sasha to come out of the changing rooms.
A kind of stoic acquiescence, an acceptance of economic collapse
drifted between desks like phantasmic
tumbleweeds.
Do dust bunnies slowly
drift across your floor like delicate dirty
tumbleweeds, to settle out of sight beneath the bed?