i miss all of this.
sometimes i even miss color combinations making my eyes wet in midnight parking lots and late night typewriter flights and leaving things behind accidentally on purpose.
and i am glad that letter didn't stick around long enough to get torn in pieces.
Isabel Archer and Dorothea Brooke are slowly providing my earnest endeavors to be "really good" with protection, forming a framework of reference I need often. Their characteristics make me want to define myself as a follower of their theories, to do something wonderful accompanied by Scott Joplin's ragtime music and rain sounds on a tin roof while I dance inside.
and i just want to go home before everyone goes other places.
once again pullman is turning me rotten and bitter, and i can feel my insides going sour at night while my eyes are closed and i can't sleep. i want to go home.
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