The afternoon has been spent catching glimpses of sunlit vesper through thin wisps of black hair, and the aroma of freshly cut grass inundating content nostrils.

There will never be much to rival the explosion of life inside one’s imagination.
We are dreamers.
We should cry.
Of joy.
And of eternal discontent.

DMN has lost faith in politricks. At least for now.
That's when you know things are changing.
Writing is essentially a failure.
I'm a bitter eccentric*.
But so damn cool anyways.
At least he says.
Thank you.