late sunday night wine at Lelabar, where we joked with the tatt-ed bartenders about Christian Bale and Richard Gere sightings.

old friends in Williamburg (or, arguably, Bay Area) plaid shirts

dancing at midnight to Sara-fucking-Bareilles, yeah you heard me

brownies for breakfast

the last warm days – soaking it up on the rooftop, watching manhattan not move, for once

walking over the brooklyn bridge with one of my favorite people in the world after stuffing our faces with chinese food

blue moons by the hot tub

when the Greek guy who manages the deli downstairs invites you to drink wine and eat packaged sushi, say yes

art shows

banana smoothies

hiking in the rain to ruins, then dancing underneath the awnings

blue eyes, i don’t care

just kidding, i unfold before you

meditating amongst modern art

reading during sunset

meeting semi celebrities at coffee shops without knowing it

honey bee, come close to me

this may not be paradise, but yes you can’t help but wonder

anything pumpkin. or apple. or butternut squash.  that’s right, i said it.

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