It's a beautiful thing, never going to sleep. You never have to wake up.

I'd like to say I've got faith under my fingernails, buy you a chest of drawers, and fill it, perfectly, and scuff around with a camera, pretend I'm an art kid, have an excuse for being melodramatic and morose. I really do need socks, ones without holes ( Read more... )

Marina is gone and there'll be no more lights on in the middle of the night. I'll never see that blue-eyed boy again. Peter Jennings is dead and the Israelis want to build a casino.

Those three old Italian ladies were dressed for church, even though it wasn't Sunday. When the bells rang, they made the sign of the cross, all at the same time. Down the street, another two were wearing huge, round glasses, very thick. They liked to talk, and did, fast, with street corner gestures and old world accents. They made me want to laugh ( Read more... )

Sometimes this city is amazing, a crazy combination of ducklings on the loose, baseball, verdigris, overpriced lattes, Berklee kids with guitars, high-powered professionals and their i-pods, the Mexican guys who hacky sack at Copley, old men playing chess in Harvard Square, and Roman architecture in the most unexpected of places. And then there's ( Read more... )

Forgetful of her general evilness, I made the mistake of asking my mother to put a bit of eyeliner on me while we were at Sephora. She told me to close my eyes, and then drew some lovely black freckles on my nose. Needless to say, I did NOT look like Radhika.

*mourns*