at home

Old friends, colliding of worlds, lemon pasta, new life, conversations under a sound machine, growing into the expansion, sore cheeks, muggy summer nights with a storm breathing down your neck, walks around the block as the humidity releases its grip, stopping to smell the flower blossoms, nourishing your people, falling asleep in a space so filled with love, long days and nights traveled, choosing each other again and again, freshly grated parmesan and the smell of parsley, the hospitable comfort of a futon when it’s in the home of your friends, eating Bambas and strawberries at the kitchen counter, stepping into the lives we couldn’t have ever imagined for ourselves, and the knowing that any amount of time spent together is a gift to hold for a lifetime.

on his way

How strange it is to not be working on a weekday. Like stepping out of the stream and watching everyone go about their routine. You’re really just looking at yourself, mindlessly completing the tasks that get you from here to there. One man drinks a coffee, another is on his way. It’s good to create space. To separate and detach.