the index. lunch time. 3am. cable knits. ferocity. silence. top drawers. back yards. muscle cars. black and blue. dirty floors. songs on repeat. trains. team reading. cheap motels. bed frames. immigration. salad shooters. playgrounds.
you grow legs whilst i learn how to swim and we'll meet somewhere in the middle.
pink. green. yellow. blue.
no time
no interest
currently reading anything paulo coehlo has ever touched. otherwise anything by kundera, baldwin, eggers, sedaris or citron. give me a double citron any day of the week. i'd pack that shit for lunch.
very grateful for all those who have helped to make this opportunity in SF a reality for me. especially you, mr. 'are you going back to america for a boyfriend' immigration man. you were clutch.