4339 to Atlanta

On greyscale days like these when nothing seems to stand out it is easier just to stay inside our minds and color in our thoughts. We could be just like two preschoolers with thick red crayons at a restaurant hard at work on our placemat masterpiece. This is my favorite thing of all to do when it snows.

Living you is like living an abstraction, or a sunrise, because everything about you is bright like the outline of a Christmas tree or the skeleton of a city from the summit at three in the morning, and you are unbound like a firefly in a museum of lanterns, and endless, like the number of angles from which rainbows can be reached. And if I were an empty space, I would linger on the corners of your name so that your hand would brush against my continuity every time you began or ended something. You are so very beautiful sometimes I am at a loss for words.

It is 4 am, and I am sitting in a little bakery in Atlanta waiting for an 8 am flight. Our plane was delayed on account of our pilot having accidentally steered us straight into a huge pile of snow, so I missed my connection and have to wait for another. I just spent the past few hours chatting with the production manager for the Grammys and the Superbowl about Prince’s backstage antics, the concept of originality, Six Degrees of Separation, and the way genuine relationships always seem to recycle and rebuild themselves around something new and useful. He’s pretty cool. It is such an incredibly small world.

I am almost home. I am so happy. I am so inspired to inspire. I am so in love with something. I am so craving some decent coffee and sunshine and having the most important people ever by my side once again and forever.

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