I'd like to find a way to smell like warm blackberries all the time. It's just exactly the time of year where the bramble I walk past on my way to and from work is in the sun all day long and it smells sweet and perfect. I'd lay down in it, if there weren't so many thorns.
I can feel myself building up to a major case of the Crazypants Jabbers, which means two things: this round of No Reasons is finally starting to slack off, and I will probably invite each and every one of you to elope with me to Coney Island sometime soon. Feel free to say yes; Coney Island is for winners. Bonus points if you let me wear my mustache during the ceremony--I'd do it anyway, but it would be nice if you agreed.
And then I want to make you all a secret tower out of cotton candy and seltzer water from the fake flowers on a clown's lapel, a secret tower where we could write songs on a kick drum and pen sonnets on our knuckles. I know that somewhere behind your forehead you speak my language.
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