i'm back and i feel fantastic. thanks for your sweetness

i'm actually in a terrific mood and don't have much to say except i fucking love new york!

i'll leave you with my favorite poem ever:

somewhere i have never travelled
e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you always open petal by petal myself as spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to percieve in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of your countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

i'm back and i feel fantastic. thanks for your sweetness

i'm actually in a terrific mood and don't have much to say except i fucking love new york!

i'll leave you with my favorite poem ever:

somewhere i have never travelled
e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you always open petal by petal myself as spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to percieve in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of your countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands