Seattle, I am watching you, and you are so, so funny. You're doing a lot of dancing when no one's looking, sure--and sometimes when maybe they are, too--but you're also falling in love for 45 seconds with passersby and smiling at strangers and humming a little song while tying your shoes and making little rocket noises walking down the streets. You're just generally having a pretty good time, it seems.
I love it when you get like this, like a thirteen year old girl that's just had her braces off and can't stop sparkling. It makes me want to carve you lucky three leaf clovers out of flower buds and sit with you on the front steps of somewhere, eating beef jerky and listening to all of your stories. I'm not always there with you, yet (it still often feels like I'm living in a Lucksmiths song, and I'll give you a dollar if you can guess which one), but I will be.
(PS, I am branching out. Want a postcard from Utah? Email me an address.)
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