Even when you’re distant -- those busy stretches of infrequent snaps -- you’re there in my car, as I bob to Emy Tseng and Dario Marianelli and Logic (there’s a new one) and other aural gems you bestow; in my tiny dorm kitchen, as I reminisce about endearingly pinkish and podgy souffles (and soon salmon heads); in the darndedly-fluorescent practice room, as your piano ghost (via snapchat ghost) urges me to sit straight in those social media-seeking moments of weakness; in every Matisse and artful shopfront and golden cadence I encounter.
And when you’re there, what a blessing it is. I thank God for you.
The years sharpen both your eyeliner and thoughts, the city casts on you its iridescent and irrepressible intensity, but the vivaciousvivers remains! The perfectionist imperfects, and the imperfectionist perfects; evolving as brilliant kaleidoscope flowers bloom, each out-opening the last; ever diving for dreams and living by love.