http://slow.writerscafe.org/picada The original writings of author picada en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776282458 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 My how time runs like sand through my fingers!His white-washed bones rattle and clink as he grasps.This skeleton man who never knew he died he clings to life like he can still live it the wine runs down his vacent gullet a poor substitute for the life blood that once bathed those bones in vital.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/picada/1039537/     The room was stale and heavy with the residue of a dream that clung to the surface of her mind. She felt her body waking, her eyelids reluctantly opening to face the late afternoon. The heat was already becoming uncomfortable and her breath reeked of last nights cigarettes and che.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/picada/446549/ My feet know the way homedown the long hot asphalt stretch.Past the reckless paraphanilia of this modern city,Past the rolling eyes and cracked lips of the lost and abandoned,In the sacred grove of an immortal mountain,where kings once shed their peoples blood;I can see the swe.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/picada/444417/