Gravity dragged us down but the spirit kept us from crashing.

There were just too many choices so she stayed in bed with the blankets pulled all the way up.

Rage in vain from your comfortable couch, oh Western world.

Absolutism was the Devil's ace in the hole.

Everyone had an opinion and they were all wrong.

The delete button was his best friend.

Every scar, whether psychic or physical, had a story.

Her secrets were like gemstones, jewelry she would sometimes wear in public for the thrill of others' reactions.

Matt didn't know a meme from a muskrat. a Tweet from turpentine, and he was a better man for it.

Sharon tried to dumb down her rhetoric but it still flew over their heads.

Bedlam's gates had been broken and the inmates went undetected among us. 

"There's always tomorrow," he thought, rolling over on his and going back to sleep.

They laughed as we desperately fought for their scraps.

Secrets, like snakes, wriggling and writhing, always seemed to sneak out.

The days were growing shorter and her memory longer.

Burt's style hadn't changed in years but every so often fashion would revisit the era in which he was most comfortable and for a little while he was cool once again.

Once a creator, now a consumer.

Politics kept ruining Pat's conversations.

The dead still lived on social media.

It seemed that he was always waiting for something that never arrived.

"What's this whole diversity thing all about?" the old rich white man asked his golf buddies.

The sun burst through the grey clouds but not through her metaphorical ones.

We shoehorned history into a two-hour-long dramatic arc.

She decided to only buy into her own drama from then on.

He was like a scratchy old record whose tone managed to remain warm and deeply seductive.

The butterflies flitted around the flowers and life felt fine for a few minutes.

The chirping of crickets was the only sound heard after the echoes of gunfire died.

We grew our own terrorists aplenty.

All our secrets are for sale.

His muse was asleep at the wheel.

"I was the toast of the town until I became the punching bag of the press," said the old man sitting next to me at the bar that catered to day drinkers.