It is so strange that Autumn is so beautiful yet essentially everything is dying in the season.
I can't buy you flowers, I won't actually by choice. I'd rather write you a story. What good are flowers when I can create a universe just for you?
Lately I have had the time and desire to wander a lot around the intricate trails of my meticulously drawn mind map(s).
Perhaps everything that we understand of 'Love' is wrong.
Each moment & experience of 2016 has so wonderfully turned me into someone else while retaining the essence of what makes me, me and it feels fantastic
Writers are artists too really, but for the sake of it, I haven't included them in this excerpt and under the definition of 'artists'.
I love you so, Felicia, forgive me if that isn't nearly enough.
So then...what is Art?
I'm fated to pretend, being the one with flattering points of peculiarity.