New time zone. New location. New food.
Old friends. Old buildings. Old ability to plop into any context (more or less).
Last night I tried my hand at doing the nails of someone else. The end product wasn't too shabby.
I haven't entirely woken up from two nights ago when a janky knight showed up in her Challenger, illegal level of tinted windows, and Detroit sweatshirt.
I also keep trying to figure out why Leather Who Smells of Vanilla feels so familiar. Perhaps it is the unfamiliar accent. Perhaps it is something akin to magnets of unknown origin knowing that our paths must cross for a reason that will be slipped to me deeper down the road.
be well; be loved,
k.
Currently reading: Dearborn by Ghassan Zeineddine
[image: Wyron A via Unsplash]
