I love living alone.
I always thought I’d like it to a point but I’d quickly feel very lonely, but it’s just not the case.
I love taking my time in the morning and hanging out in my oversized pajamas (the top was my dad’s, the bottoms were my grandfather’s).
I love being familiar with every object because I put it there and I can point out to every single thing and I know where it comes from.
That knife I bought at a flea market last October because I liked the color of its handle and I was wearing a temporary tattoo of a knife the almost same color, that tray I bought in Stockholm on a trip with my friend Cerise, that maple leaf I picked up almost three years ago in Vancouver, on Broadway, close to Balsam Street. That teapot I bought for Christmas for a friend, but it turned out she loved it so much she’d bought one already, so I got to keep it. That blanket my grandmother knitted for me, the Empite State Building holding my books I made years ago in a ceramics class. That bag was expensive but I’m glad I bought it.
These glass pieces I picked up on the beach in Fort Bragg, California.
