Seeking solace.
I'm not sure where to turn, to find this.


who the fuck caresMy dear, you see? those dandelions dancing in the breeze? A thousand of them, it seems, blown away on autumn wind's seams leaving their tied-down clusters, leaving home, Surfing upon the crest of the wind they go rapidly, all of their kind is fleeting. Don't think you can catch one in your hands and hold it, watch- you can never keep anything in the end.who the fuck cares


Letters In gray mist I would always imagine writing you letters full of the things I needed to say to you if I knew how.Letters
Summer mornings on the cold beach, and I remember you tracing words into the sand with your bare foot. J.J.+ A.B. and hearts and fragile things, and often when we walked on with your arm around me, I would look back at the letters, being washed away into the laps of foamy sea.
Some people never learn that nothing lasts longer than a fly in a cup of coffee, and others know it all too well.
Three months ago I wrote with proper


The Piece of Paper That Just Happy Birthday.The Piece of Paper That Just
Its too early or too late to be writing this; the curtains are drawn and it could be noon, or midnight. In sixteen seconds or sixteen hours or days or weeks, you will be a sweet year older, and I will give you my best wishes, but nothing else. In sixteen months, sixteen years, you will be awake at four in the morning, watching stars or sunrise, and I will be dreaming, of you. In sixteen nevers it will be your birthday again, and I will be there; we will drink scarlet wine over the night lights of Paris, until the world curves upon itself and the champagne colored bubbles burst, spraying iridescent drop
Pumpkin
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The shadows prove that light exists.
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flickr | design blog
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Art is what we are made of...
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