a collection of scribbles from a teahouse in Stirling, Scotland

i’ve set out on a sole travel again and oh what a strange beauty there is to it now that I’ve found that groove again that I had at Salem.  Two buses and a train…

this country–it calls to the very blood of my bones

England–we escaped you. does your pride still hurt?

a American abroad–I always see it more clearly: the good and the bad

i’m sitting here–listening to two women a few years older than me complain about weight. oh the power men hold in this regard, with no boundaries and an ever further reach.

it’s strange–these women have the same desire, to move abraod, that I have. why do we always want what we can’t have? what is the appeal of the other-why do we long so?


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