le journalisme jaune on a sunny morn.
I woke up to Jeff Buckley's "Hallejulah" and a city bathed in light.
Woke up meaning was awakened, had an epiphany, took in every surrounding sight, sound, and sense, breathed it all in, sighed, laughed, closed my eyes, and was content. I want this, early morning Broadway soaked in sunlight.
Long demin legs dangling off of the Low Library at noon, squinting into le ciel bleu clair. Swinging. Smiling. Turning away from the shutter at the last possible second. I want that moment - not for you or her or them, but for all of us and for me. For me. I want this and I want then and I want now. Yes.
Yellow walls more than once in a lifetime. Yes.
Notebook paper carefully folded at an imperfect crease. Imperfection is a lovely word. Crooked, like a grin. And conditional tense slipping into the impending future. Slipping into, slipping away.
Life at a standstill. Air. Lightness. Color. Cool breeze through a window at 60 miles an hour. Beauty. Imperfection. Yes.
Woke up meaning was awakened, had an epiphany, took in every surrounding sight, sound, and sense, breathed it all in, sighed, laughed, closed my eyes, and was content. I want this, early morning Broadway soaked in sunlight.
Long demin legs dangling off of the Low Library at noon, squinting into le ciel bleu clair. Swinging. Smiling. Turning away from the shutter at the last possible second. I want that moment - not for you or her or them, but for all of us and for me. For me. I want this and I want then and I want now. Yes.
Yellow walls more than once in a lifetime. Yes.
Notebook paper carefully folded at an imperfect crease. Imperfection is a lovely word. Crooked, like a grin. And conditional tense slipping into the impending future. Slipping into, slipping away.
Life at a standstill. Air. Lightness. Color. Cool breeze through a window at 60 miles an hour. Beauty. Imperfection. Yes.