Cynicism is the color of gverstiminer, a name of a wine that I can’t spell, but it is copper colored, and bittersweet.

Cynicism is doubt winking at you in the mirror.

It is less a mask of love than a twisting of reasons for optimizing twists of fate, the round part of an answer that falls down in your wine glass when you think you might say something important.

Cynicism is the sound a stone makes against glass.

Cynicism is one side of longing's shell left in two parts on the ground.

Cynicism is the back of a bumper sticker. Doesn’t say anything, only sticks the message in place.

Cynisim climbs social structures like a morning glory, and rises only when relevance fades.

Cynicism vibrates like hope with edges. It establishes the limit of bowstrings made out of the guts of reason.

Cynicism is the unfinished conversation we have inside. Only, neither side is listening.

If I carved a cynical pumpkin, it would be a big candlelit smile with teeth.

Cynicism ignores the depth of intuition and sets out on thin ice.

Cynicism is joy wrapped in danger.

A few thoughts for a world spun up in cynical webs.

Love,
Terra