Today I feel the un-seasonal sting of a slight sunburn upon my arms.
(Sometimes, we are caught off guard.)
I was in a bookstore today in a town I am not from, but that I've been in once before in my lifetime. I notice the curation of certain, small bookstores. I appreciate the stores that, in their limited space, stock good literature as opposed to seventeen copies of the book that will/should sell. I appreciate being able to find new authors- magical enough to entice me.
I've been thinking of you breathing into my hands.
I've been thinking of the slender-voiced singers whose songs I avoid in order not to be overcome with emotion.
My emotions have been more of an on/off switch as off late.
If you ever get a chance to read all of Nabokov, do it. His descriptions are so tailored they will make the heft of all of your clothes fall to the floor immediately by slicing one, simple, stitch.
k.
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