Ten.Two Thousad, Six Hundred & Fifty-Five
Bright sun. A good sign on shoot day.
I misjudged the morning temperatures and am sweaty before 9 a.m.
My legs. I want to lie on the floor and not move. We must demand access to a golf cart.
Who ate my lunch?
Three down, which means there should be at least four, but we only have two.
He says that he’s into astrology and Rococo; he is warm and innocent and open and deep. I dig.
It’s an odd assortment of folks.
Listening to the way she speaks about this, you remember that we could have done so much more.
Car metaphors while drinking wine on a low-slung couch. The kind of Napa Valley scene outsiders think you live on the regular.
No more words. Peopled out.
