333. A small twinge in his lower back, like regret. A little higher, the knife forgotten.

332. The sharp scent of smoke in the living room didn't come from the fire, but from the rain falling on the embers of the fire. As the weather worsened, we bees were forced to flee the hive.

331. The contact lens on the tip of his finger, a simple bowl of water. They shared this myopic vision, drank from the same cup.

330. Every time he wrote something, he sensed someone reading over his shoulder, but it was only a shadow. He placed a mirror in front of his desk in case he was wrong.

329. He heard the wind knocking at the side door. He wondered why it didn't use the bell.

328. He disassembled each head of cauliflower florette by florette, then divided each florette into florettes of ever-decreasing size. When the cauliflower was merely dust he began on the broccoli.

00:18 It stopped raining. I closed my umbrella.

327. Across the midnight-blue sky and beneath a waxing gibbous moon, a ghostly contrail extending into a blinking light. This stretch of journey is safe in its observation, to be unseen is to be unknown.

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