The world is made of beer in the morning and cigars on the front porch at night. The rich dilettantes are neither good nor free— they assume the world reflects their displeasure, their hollowness. Where I am is not anywhere anyone wants to be. The lake in its sun-dipped majesty beckons to locals only. The snow falls in silence for us to endure. We stay because there is nowhere else we would rather be. We wrap tight against the wind, bathe in our own private sunshine. The world is made of cheap little pleasures— late nights that stretch into morning, lost socks and broken-down cars. The world is made of living things. The world is made of friends.
Postcard From A Place You Don't Know
Postcard From A Place You Don't Know
Postcard From A Place You Don't Know
The world is made of beer in the morning and cigars on the front porch at night. The rich dilettantes are neither good nor free— they assume the world reflects their displeasure, their hollowness. Where I am is not anywhere anyone wants to be. The lake in its sun-dipped majesty beckons to locals only. The snow falls in silence for us to endure. We stay because there is nowhere else we would rather be. We wrap tight against the wind, bathe in our own private sunshine. The world is made of cheap little pleasures— late nights that stretch into morning, lost socks and broken-down cars. The world is made of living things. The world is made of friends.