I’m _______ you in my dreams. I think you know what it means.
I’m _______ you in my dreams. I think you know what it means.
I’m _______ you in my dreams. I think you know what it means.
(Un)released musical thoughts on the state of the world. 1: Long live the billionaire. 2: The world can’t change for you, but you can change the world. 3: ‘Merican dream. 4. Rich white guys. 5: Trippin’. 6. Big man (with Captain Planet). 6. It’s a good day (to fight the system). 7. Music is medicine (with @captain.planet.music).
(Un)released musical thoughts on the state of the world. 1: Long live the billionaire. 2: The world can’t change for you, but you can change the world. 3: ‘Merican dream. 4. Rich white guys. 5: Trippin’. 6. Big man (with Captain Planet). 6. It’s a good day (to fight the system). 7. Music is medicine (with @captain.planet.music).
I woke up and the temperature was dreamy I loved on every sad thought in my mind I got dressed up and felt so good to be me I stepped outside and greeted humankind
What does it ask for? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My kind asks for a stain to scour My mind asks to be washed and wrung My fear asks for a place to cower My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My soul asks to live in the flowers My shadow asks to spit and run My ego asks for all the power My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My drunk asks for a whiskey sour My high asks for a rising sun My joy demands to dance for hours My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My body asks to be devoured My lonely asks for bread or crumbs My dreams ask for a home that’s ours My love just asks to love someone
What does it ask for? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My kind asks for a stain to scour My mind asks to be washed and wrung My fear asks for a place to cower My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My soul asks to live in the flowers My shadow asks to spit and run My ego asks for all the power My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My drunk asks for a whiskey sour My high asks for a rising sun My joy demands to dance for hours My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My body asks to be devoured My lonely asks for bread or crumbs My dreams ask for a home that’s ours My love just asks to love someone
What does it ask for? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My kind asks for a stain to scour My mind asks to be washed and wrung My fear asks for a place to cower My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My soul asks to live in the flowers My shadow asks to spit and run My ego asks for all the power My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My drunk asks for a whiskey sour My high asks for a rising sun My joy demands to dance for hours My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My body asks to be devoured My lonely asks for bread or crumbs My dreams ask for a home that’s ours My love just asks to love someone
What does it ask for? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My kind asks for a stain to scour My mind asks to be washed and wrung My fear asks for a place to cower My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My soul asks to live in the flowers My shadow asks to spit and run My ego asks for all the power My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My drunk asks for a whiskey sour My high asks for a rising sun My joy demands to dance for hours My love just asks to love someone ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ My body asks to be devoured My lonely asks for bread or crumbs My dreams ask for a home that’s ours My love just asks to love someone
While visiting me, my mother asked for a small cup with a lid so that she wouldn’t spill red wine on my white bed sheets. I told her I wouldn’t mind, but she insisted, so I got out the stepladder and climbed to the top shelf of the cabinet in the kitchen. Up there, tucked out of sight, was the cup that he gave me. One of those cups that keeps things hot so that your morning coffee can still burn you in the afternoon. I got rid of everything else we shared. I kissed some things goodbye and drove them to Goodwill. I threw some things in the trash and dragged them to the curb. I slowly replaced everything we called “ours” with objects with no memories of mine. They say if you can, you should, but this cup, I decided, could stay. I don’t know why, but I kept it. I hid it. I forgot it. One large cupful of hurting to drink down or drain out. Twelve trapped ounces of healing that I didn’t yet know how to do. I baptized the cup with soap and water and handed it to my mother. I remarked about its colors and made some joke about how at least he had good tastes. She laughed and poured herself a bedtime glass of wine. Every night for five nights, my mother drank wine from the cup. Every morning for four mornings, she washed it out and set it to dry. On her last morning here, she left it on the bedside table. Upon discovering it, I instantly knew that something about it was different, but it wasn’t until I walked it to the kitchen and scrubbed it clean that I realized what had changed. Today, looking at it on the drying rack, it is still changed. It is no longer the cup he gave me. It is the cup my mother drinks wine from. I am no longer the woman I was. I am the woman that I am. I got rid of everything else we shared. Maybe I just needed to make new memories with it. Or maybe I did it all right — letting go of the big things but keeping something small so that, someday, my mother would use it to show me that I am all mine again.
While visiting me, my mother asked for a small cup with a lid so that she wouldn’t spill red wine on my white bed sheets. I told her I wouldn’t mind, but she insisted, so I got out the stepladder and climbed to the top shelf of the cabinet in the kitchen. Up there, tucked out of sight, was the cup that he gave me. One of those cups that keeps things hot so that your morning coffee can still burn you in the afternoon. I got rid of everything else we shared. I kissed some things goodbye and drove them to Goodwill. I threw some things in the trash and dragged them to the curb. I slowly replaced everything we called “ours” with objects with no memories of mine. They say if you can, you should, but this cup, I decided, could stay. I don’t know why, but I kept it. I hid it. I forgot it. One large cupful of hurting to drink down or drain out. Twelve trapped ounces of healing that I didn’t yet know how to do. I baptized the cup with soap and water and handed it to my mother. I remarked about its colors and made some joke about how at least he had good tastes. She laughed and poured herself a bedtime glass of wine. Every night for five nights, my mother drank wine from the cup. Every morning for four mornings, she washed it out and set it to dry. On her last morning here, she left it on the bedside table. Upon discovering it, I instantly knew that something about it was different, but it wasn’t until I walked it to the kitchen and scrubbed it clean that I realized what had changed. Today, looking at it on the drying rack, it is still changed. It is no longer the cup he gave me. It is the cup my mother drinks wine from. I am no longer the woman I was. I am the woman that I am. I got rid of everything else we shared. Maybe I just needed to make new memories with it. Or maybe I did it all right — letting go of the big things but keeping something small so that, someday, my mother would use it to show me that I am all mine again.
While visiting me, my mother asked for a small cup with a lid so that she wouldn’t spill red wine on my white bed sheets. I told her I wouldn’t mind, but she insisted, so I got out the stepladder and climbed to the top shelf of the cabinet in the kitchen. Up there, tucked out of sight, was the cup that he gave me. One of those cups that keeps things hot so that your morning coffee can still burn you in the afternoon. I got rid of everything else we shared. I kissed some things goodbye and drove them to Goodwill. I threw some things in the trash and dragged them to the curb. I slowly replaced everything we called “ours” with objects with no memories of mine. They say if you can, you should, but this cup, I decided, could stay. I don’t know why, but I kept it. I hid it. I forgot it. One large cupful of hurting to drink down or drain out. Twelve trapped ounces of healing that I didn’t yet know how to do. I baptized the cup with soap and water and handed it to my mother. I remarked about its colors and made some joke about how at least he had good tastes. She laughed and poured herself a bedtime glass of wine. Every night for five nights, my mother drank wine from the cup. Every morning for four mornings, she washed it out and set it to dry. On her last morning here, she left it on the bedside table. Upon discovering it, I instantly knew that something about it was different, but it wasn’t until I walked it to the kitchen and scrubbed it clean that I realized what had changed. Today, looking at it on the drying rack, it is still changed. It is no longer the cup he gave me. It is the cup my mother drinks wine from. I am no longer the woman I was. I am the woman that I am. I got rid of everything else we shared. Maybe I just needed to make new memories with it. Or maybe I did it all right — letting go of the big things but keeping something small so that, someday, my mother would use it to show me that I am all mine again.
While visiting me, my mother asked for a small cup with a lid so that she wouldn’t spill red wine on my white bed sheets. I told her I wouldn’t mind, but she insisted, so I got out the stepladder and climbed to the top shelf of the cabinet in the kitchen. Up there, tucked out of sight, was the cup that he gave me. One of those cups that keeps things hot so that your morning coffee can still burn you in the afternoon. I got rid of everything else we shared. I kissed some things goodbye and drove them to Goodwill. I threw some things in the trash and dragged them to the curb. I slowly replaced everything we called “ours” with objects with no memories of mine. They say if you can, you should, but this cup, I decided, could stay. I don’t know why, but I kept it. I hid it. I forgot it. One large cupful of hurting to drink down or drain out. Twelve trapped ounces of healing that I didn’t yet know how to do. I baptized the cup with soap and water and handed it to my mother. I remarked about its colors and made some joke about how at least he had good tastes. She laughed and poured herself a bedtime glass of wine. Every night for five nights, my mother drank wine from the cup. Every morning for four mornings, she washed it out and set it to dry. On her last morning here, she left it on the bedside table. Upon discovering it, I instantly knew that something about it was different, but it wasn’t until I walked it to the kitchen and scrubbed it clean that I realized what had changed. Today, looking at it on the drying rack, it is still changed. It is no longer the cup he gave me. It is the cup my mother drinks wine from. I am no longer the woman I was. I am the woman that I am. I got rid of everything else we shared. Maybe I just needed to make new memories with it. Or maybe I did it all right — letting go of the big things but keeping something small so that, someday, my mother would use it to show me that I am all mine again.
While visiting me, my mother asked for a small cup with a lid so that she wouldn’t spill red wine on my white bed sheets. I told her I wouldn’t mind, but she insisted, so I got out the stepladder and climbed to the top shelf of the cabinet in the kitchen. Up there, tucked out of sight, was the cup that he gave me. One of those cups that keeps things hot so that your morning coffee can still burn you in the afternoon. I got rid of everything else we shared. I kissed some things goodbye and drove them to Goodwill. I threw some things in the trash and dragged them to the curb. I slowly replaced everything we called “ours” with objects with no memories of mine. They say if you can, you should, but this cup, I decided, could stay. I don’t know why, but I kept it. I hid it. I forgot it. One large cupful of hurting to drink down or drain out. Twelve trapped ounces of healing that I didn’t yet know how to do. I baptized the cup with soap and water and handed it to my mother. I remarked about its colors and made some joke about how at least he had good tastes. She laughed and poured herself a bedtime glass of wine. Every night for five nights, my mother drank wine from the cup. Every morning for four mornings, she washed it out and set it to dry. On her last morning here, she left it on the bedside table. Upon discovering it, I instantly knew that something about it was different, but it wasn’t until I walked it to the kitchen and scrubbed it clean that I realized what had changed. Today, looking at it on the drying rack, it is still changed. It is no longer the cup he gave me. It is the cup my mother drinks wine from. I am no longer the woman I was. I am the woman that I am. I got rid of everything else we shared. Maybe I just needed to make new memories with it. Or maybe I did it all right — letting go of the big things but keeping something small so that, someday, my mother would use it to show me that I am all mine again.
How generous of life To give us sunset and sunrise Without a price ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ How generous of life To offer ignorant and wise An equal slice ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ A gift and not a prize She puts a twinkle in the eyes Of men and mice ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ In darkness or in light Undress or lock your armor twice A heart of truth, a head of lies Come as you are, just come alive The one who crawls, the one who flies For one and all, each day provides Us freshly painted skies How generous of life ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 📷: @austinward.wav
How generous of life To give us sunset and sunrise Without a price ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ How generous of life To offer ignorant and wise An equal slice ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ A gift and not a prize She puts a twinkle in the eyes Of men and mice ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ In darkness or in light Undress or lock your armor twice A heart of truth, a head of lies Come as you are, just come alive The one who crawls, the one who flies For one and all, each day provides Us freshly painted skies How generous of life ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 📷: @austinward.wav
How generous of life To give us sunset and sunrise Without a price ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ How generous of life To offer ignorant and wise An equal slice ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ A gift and not a prize She puts a twinkle in the eyes Of men and mice ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ In darkness or in light Undress or lock your armor twice A heart of truth, a head of lies Come as you are, just come alive The one who crawls, the one who flies For one and all, each day provides Us freshly painted skies How generous of life ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 📷: @austinward.wav
How generous of life To give us sunset and sunrise Without a price ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ How generous of life To offer ignorant and wise An equal slice ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ A gift and not a prize She puts a twinkle in the eyes Of men and mice ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ In darkness or in light Undress or lock your armor twice A heart of truth, a head of lies Come as you are, just come alive The one who crawls, the one who flies For one and all, each day provides Us freshly painted skies How generous of life ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 📷: @austinward.wav
How generous of life To give us sunset and sunrise Without a price ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ How generous of life To offer ignorant and wise An equal slice ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ A gift and not a prize She puts a twinkle in the eyes Of men and mice ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ In darkness or in light Undress or lock your armor twice A heart of truth, a head of lies Come as you are, just come alive The one who crawls, the one who flies For one and all, each day provides Us freshly painted skies How generous of life ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 📷: @austinward.wav
I’m watching a TV show It’s us and everyone we know All extras All main characters All villains All saviors Save yourself
Fuck it. I’ll say it. Next year’s gonna be amazing!
Fuck it. I’ll say it. Next year’s gonna be amazing!
Fuck it. I’ll say it. Next year’s gonna be amazing!
