You might find me in a heap on the floor, a crying mess. Or tucked away in the back corner of a coffeeshop, pretending to work. On occasion, in the library with a book. (Usually, the buzz of the too-quiet there leaves me uncomfortable.) More often, in bed with that same book, with or without clothes. You might find me dancing in the kitchen, making soup or roasting vegetables or mixing drinks (mostly vodka, with just a splash of juice.) Perhaps in conversation, listening more than I speak. Playing games, or dreaming dreams, or sipping tea. Driving toward the mountains, away from all of this. You might find me making lists of the places I want to go and the things I want to do: I want to dance wildly in Austin, Texas and photographs Highland cows in the Scottish countryside and lay by the beach in Koh Chang; I want to write a book that even just one person will read, and I want to visit every state in this country and I want to make the world a little bit better. You will find me lingering in art museums and bookstores and parks and little shops tucked away on quiet alleys. You will find me reading everything I can my hands on. You will find me in love with the world, and deeply saddened by it, too.

photo by amandine paulandre