"It's raining in Venice, where I'm at a diner with my girlfriend on my birthday, when she
tells me she has to get something from her car. My hair wet, wounding and bittersweet,
I study the reflection. When shimmering, or sporty. Picture this: uncommon year,
uncommon legs went to strawberry salt in the grass. And if she herself saw anything
besides weeds? Moved versus the always red color of her. My problem now is
where to find yesterday's taste. Your kind inquiry is much appreciated."
Egg = new life, apple = life