7 / 365 Parker

She was near dead when found. Boney, check’n-out-soon look in her eyes, no fear of us certain carnivores because the end would be a big kitten favor. Her Hail Mary was in the air, deep. Eight years later she sheds.

6 / 365 Mr. Witson

First to put a camera in my hands. I took his class for other reasons, but in the end he won. He offered instruction for us to recognize, but he didn’t want mediocre shooters in the world. Effort equaled reward.

5 / 365 Sarah

A past love whose being is imaginable only in dreams: our waking lives are far to corrupt for such moments. So chaste she needed to be encouraged into sin. St. Peter won’t acknowledge her sins in the end. I don’t.

4 / 365 Lisa C. - H.

My introduction to lawyers. Physically ugly. Morally niggardly. Spiritually disfigured. She uses children as shields in the face of potential harm, more often for money. I suspect a past trampling by a large angry beast, which is now her totem.

3 / 365 Bruce

Bruce brilliantly played guitar. He’s smaller. When he strummed he was a child dervish furiously peddling a large wooden tricycle. He’d sing, women would grind on their bar stools. I’ve since no more Mitty allusions about being cool on guitar.

2 / 365 Tom

If I had to choose a man to spear me at my crucifixion, it would be him. He is why flannel was invented, while reinventing honesty, integrity, respect and sanctity. He kept his chaos together, with patients leftover for mine.