84

dear will robinson sheff,

there is something endlessly beautiful about the way words spill out of your mouth. there is something in that tripping rhythm that i would like to speak myself, like every phrase could fall out from between my teeth like some ship tipping over a wave. how do you do it? from "in ghosts, lit by moonlight or dawning" to "at quiet of midnight, cold and dim, they say," no, really.

love,
yael.