for all my musician friends:

http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/article/news/38127/Brian_Wilson_Tom_Waits_Judge_Your_Music

facebook, oh geez

i'm writing in small
blurbs like a baby thinking
milk milk pick me up
-
all we need, you, me,
is a thought and a tree
to write it upon
-
clouds are just letters
rearranged to make poems
different every time
-
props to the people
who buy berries in winter.
what a luxury.
-
leave me a haiku
comment and i'll love you. please?
five-seven-five, dears.

indian springs formal in one week.
my dress came in the mail today.


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( i can't get enough of this song. )

sometimes there are days when you say, "this is perfect," and you know that when you're thinking of your youth in twenty or fifty years, you'll remember the way the light fell across the trees, or how your coffee tasted, or the song that made everything feel just right.

yesterday was one of those.


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"I want to see, real, living, and in the hours of my own days, that glory I create as an illusion. I want it real. I want to know that there is someone, somewhere, who wants it, too. Or else what is the use of seeing it, and working, and burning oneself for an impossible vision? A spirit, too, needs fuel. It can run dry."

--Ayn Rand (from Ideal)

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