Author Archives: Matt Tooley

Weekends, he simply won’t shut up. (I once made the mistake of list’ning.)

No longer knowing– here–how to love, a human king turns transient.

Autumn enters like relations come home: For some it’s joy; others, death.

Just what I needed: whiskey, mussels, truffled fries, salmon, chocolate…

Sun-backed, the old barn had the old spark, as if kissed by a spry, young lass.

If you ponder not the unknowns, you will have life. But you won’t have soul.

“There’s no right answer,” they said. “Therefore it’s not a question worth asking.”