up!

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" There are years that ask questions and years that answer. "

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" Be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. "

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tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #756 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Text for Tired Eyes:
I want fireworks from mountaintops and lightning from windowsills.  I want lazy board games where rules forget to matter and I want shouting matches over important things.  I want a passion that burns through us and sets the sheets on fire.  I want to wake up covered in soot from the night before.  I want a hand to catch my head when my eyes fill up with water, and I want fingers to find my shoulders when the weight of a lifetime feels too heavy from time to time.  I want to be the tireless palms that rub the aches from your flesh and the kiss on the forehead after you fall asleep from it.  I want the steering wheel cold in my hands on the start of a morning road trip far from here and I want to be the sound of your legs stretching when we stop for gas.  I want the photos of every sign at the border of every state and I want my fingers slightly stained with the stamps from every visa in our passports.  I want the odor of strange food that snakes its way down long streets and the sound of boots on cobblestone and clay.
Part Two.

tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #756 by Tyler Knott Gregson

Text for Tired Eyes:

I want fireworks from mountaintops and lightning from windowsills.  I want lazy board games where rules forget to matter and I want shouting matches over important things.  I want a passion that burns through us and sets the sheets on fire.  I want to wake up covered in soot from the night before.  I want a hand to catch my head when my eyes fill up with water, and I want fingers to find my shoulders when the weight of a lifetime feels too heavy from time to time.  I want to be the tireless palms that rub the aches from your flesh and the kiss on the forehead after you fall asleep from it.  I want the steering wheel cold in my hands on the start of a morning road trip far from here and I want to be the sound of your legs stretching when we stop for gas.  I want the photos of every sign at the border of every state and I want my fingers slightly stained with the stamps from every visa in our passports.  I want the odor of strange food that snakes its way down long streets and the sound of boots on cobblestone and clay.

Part Two.

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