rip.

silence in the car on the way home,
the tires hitting the different surface textures the only sound.
every time i leave a cemetery, i vow to live my life to the fullest.
if life ends with a plaque briefly describing my place in the world
it best not be regretful and in some biblical language.

london always does this to me.

sir john everett millais stirs the romantic in me
like only an artist can.
will I ever feel the intense passion demonstrated in these paintings?

rapture.

my hands smell like watermelons as I splash

my face with water from newly installed facet.

i look like the present day deborah harry and I am only 27.

whiskey is bad.

all things go.

first plant of summer died long before our love did.