NYC, from the High Line.

Diana, Color Negative.

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Only words.

New Orleans, you slay me. Sitting on the porch, quiet listening. November sunlight. 70 degrees, a breeze. Birds, dogs, children. A neighbor walks up and down the next block playing, practicing the trumpet, hidden. These moments are not rare, yet they always hit me right in the gut, up to my heart, and yes, I nearly cry.

On my walk home.