I lace up my boots, pull over my coffee sweater, cuff my woolen socks, and I think about how, finally I am expressed.
Every day my heart is spilling out over knotted wooden tables. It is nourished by turning pages and cementing graphite scratches onto Moleskin possibilities.
On Sundays I look through soft river planes and see familiarity. Summer kisses my shoulder and I accept. Willingly, I give in to this wildness quaking inside. This begging to be free, alive, satisfied.