Morning rituals have returned. In time for my favorite month. I love you, September. No one bothers you. No birthdays, no chapsticks in my Mazda. no treehouse and No sacrificing of fruit. Not even a this is the corner where I pinched your butt and you told me to stop because it's not flirty and you hate it. I've never counted anyone's lashes in September. The eyes nor the outs. I've always felt the presence of fall in you. Hypnotized by the way you make leaves do their thing, you know, the one where any given street is covered in an orgy of dried up little bodies pulling every one in a directionless rhythm. Dancing with each other.
a compilation of things that make up an online sketchbook, and stuff.