Life Could be Simple

Oh and why can’t we always just type, and play with different fonts and love who we want to love and they’ll just love us back? Why can’t I sit with my back against an old oak tree, bare toes in the grass, and be poetic with someone’s head in my lap and draw birdsongs on a clean white piece of paper with a fine-point black Sharpie pen? So many questions, but it’s mostly because I don’t want to learn about Clara Schumann and Mendelssohn and the Cult of Virtuosity. Don’t worship others, worship yourself.