I don't think I could ever love someone who was perfect. I'm not saying that because we're both in our underwear next to one another feigning sleep, but more or less that imperfections are the french-ticklers of love.
Everyone twitches as they fall asleep, everyone yells out in their sleep. Some even dream about a miniature horse named Lee-Anne.
Its mid-day and if I wasn't on my last day of a fever, I would be at work. I was almost glad to be sick. It could have been self induced for all I know. Even the thought of going into Boston one more day makes my stomach turn.
I want to finish the semester strong. I want to sit in my dorm room with my mother and Luke and talk about art.
Its a mess, the sun is pouring in. Luke's asleep in my bed and I could be in Michigan with Jeremy Quentin making music for the rest of my known life.
This flood was a choice I made.
And I'd rather be here.
