source: The Daily Mail
I am finding it much more preferable to enjoy my backyard right now than post on the ol' blog, so I decided to share this picture, which makes me unreasonably happy.
--I was aware too how strange adults were, how their lives were vaster than they wanted anyone to realize, that they actually stretched on and on like deserts, dry and desolate, with an unpredictable, shifting sea of dunes.
--Dad said it was imperative to avoid people's fervent confidences and confessions. "Tell the person you must leave the room," he instructed, "that you ate something, that you're ill, that your father has scarlet fever, that you feel the end of the world is imminent and you must rush to the grocery store to stock up on bottled water and gas masks. Or simply fake a seizure. Anything, sweet, anything at all to rid yourself of that intimacy they plan to lay on you like a slab of cement."
On one side of her were two giant Duane Reade shopping bags, on the other a brown paper Whole Foods bag and a large grey leather purse, unzipped and sagging open like a gutted reef shark, inside of which you could see all it had ingested that morning: Vogue, a green sweater still attached to knitting needles, a sneaker, a pair of white Apple earphones wrapped around not an iPod but a Discman. It might as well have been a gramophone.
She didn't notice us walking toward her because her eyes were closed and she was whispering to herself-apparently trying to memorize the block of highlighted text from the play in her hands. On the table in front of her was a plate of half-finished French toast floating like a houseboat on the Mississippi in a pool of syrup.