He snores loudly and farts in his sleep. Sometimes he even steals the covers but he lets me big little spoon so I stifle the urge to smother him with a hypoallergenic pillow.
Discuss. Be lovely. Stick with this weird little man till the end. He makes it all come together. Remember that we’re all alive at the same time.
When we go to the top floor – really, the only floor worth visiting at MoMA – I spotted a Miró across the room.
In the morning I have great and impossible aspirations. The first rush of caffeine hits and I am teeming, an overflowing bouquet of ideas, flowers pushing up and out of vases. Today is the day.
Writing isn’t talking. I don’t even have to open my mouth for you to know exactly what I think.
We vaguely religious types, less at home at church than we are on Susan Miller’s website, in a yoga class, and in the pages of self-help books, tend to only turn to the G-man when we’re really lost.
She wore a messy bun and spoke with an accent and always asked what were my plans.
A gallery featuring Buffalo artist Ben Perrone.
You’re less critical of yourself, less discerning about what you’re writing down, and you can therefore just let the ideas flow.
You’re both introverted and extroverted at the same time. You have notebooks filled with writing and napkins that you scribbled ideas on and walls plastered with art– however you define that. You don’t root yourself without spreading your vines and blossoming. You appreciated that metaphor.