conor oberst today in central park. dreams really do come true.
i said too much, but god, i just don’t care.
You wrote down that you were a writer by profession. It sounded to me like the loveliest euphemism I had ever heard. When was writing ever your profession? It’s never been anything but your religion. Never.
Keep me up till five only because all your stars are out, and for no other reason.
playground love playing in some quaint williamsburg bake shop. how to feel. how to feeeeel.
I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.
You’re not like the others. I’ve seen a few; I know. When I talk, you look at me. When I said something about the moon, you looked at the moon.
Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.