i can feel it
there's a certain smell in the air, a way in which the light hits the ground, a sound of creaking braches and birdsong that brings forth a certain ambition in me. i have this stange desire to run out and point out all of the tiny, minute things i see to complete strangers; to dig my fingers into their flesh while gesticulating madly at the sky above or the dirt below or the patterns that the bare branches make against the early spring sky.
however, since doing so would simply push me further into the "crazy" category [if, indeed, i could be pushed any futher down that path], i've instead decided simply to resurrect an old favourite: writing to the unknowns of the internerd.
as always, i promise spelling mistakes, a lack of capitals, and grandiose turns of phrase.
oh, and coffee. lots and lots of coffee.