Want most

June 8, 2012

In still moments, I hear it: the small voice of who I was, once, for four weeks. It was winter, then, and we know how I hate winter, but even in snow, I could have reached out at any moment and touched the rough wall of a building filled with art.

On those short winter days, I read, and napped, and walked, and wrote and wrote and wrote. On those long winter nights, I drank wine and played cards.

It was perfection, and when i’m still for a minute, it’s the thing I want most.

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