Creativity is great, but plagiarism is faster

Here are some random, sometimes fragmented, thoughts I want to share:

~I'm teaching myself to enjoy drinking coffee black

~I have to thoroughly hate every sentence I write before I can love any of them

~A young black man flew off the edge of the 3-step, rice paddy, rise to the elevated sidewalk, landing hard but nimbly. A green lizard clung to the back of his tight curls as he rollerbladed around the fountain with the naked baby sculptures and finally out of sight

~Smoke wafted up to the balcony above, floating aimlessly until it found its way out from under the ledge and was lost from sight in the night sky

~"All you have to do is be more honest: throw yourself overboard wherever you can, don't make yourself the hero of your own novel, get away from yourself at least for half an hour" --the inimitable Anton Chekhov

~I've always wondered if, in movies, when the main character dies tragically and they cut to the scene where austere pallbearers are carrying the coffin, whether the actor whose character has been knocked off is actually inside

~Can I have a white mocha that doesn't taste like a candy bar?

~Prose poetry is nothing but run-on sentences until read aloud and then it becomes a thought

~Two homeless men playing dominoes on a concrete ledge

~Each day, the asian student walks in five minutes late. The TA makes brief eye contact, shifts forward in his seat, and shifts back gingerly, avoiding the probing eyes as the student plops down in the seat next to him

~One good rhyme makes the next ten bad ones tolerable

~Description before dialogue: give the characters somewhere to exist before you let them speak

~I opened my eyes and kicked off my sheets when I realized I had no real interest in sleeping tonight

~She lay on her back, smelling the inescapably sweet, ephemeral scent of freshly cut grass

~Wrapped around a shopping car like an adulteress to her lies

~Write imperfection on the door when it shuts, I don't have the energy to say what you mean

~The leaves vacillate on the bows that shuttle rhythmically in the breezy hour of dusk

~Clouds, like tangled vines trail across the horizon