i am always lost in my dreams of tuscan sun and terrible poetry; that i am always writing the most terrible poetry yet, and that i love it because in my corsage of words i'd find the light in my spirit, and that i feel it whenever i skim through the mishmash of verses, reminded ever so gently that i am capable of creating little nothings that can be bigger somethings; firecrackers that can explode into stars.
