what else can i tell you? it is warm outside. i’m thinking of dreamy, slept-in beds, and an unsteady finger drawing a line down the underside of my wrist. deep eyes, deep thoughts. deepthoughts. we aren’t as complex as we all think we are; we glance at each other from across a row of parked cars, we smile over the heads of dandelions on a slope, and we’re still trying to sleep at night. drinking lukewarm coffee in a deserted hospital lobby, returning to the same lonely apartment every evening. the weeks are too long, the days too short. i want my life to be an impressionist painting.
