the anti-heroine of an era of bathtub gin, organized crime, and jazz, clouded in the smoke of fired guns and cigarettes.
“a bouquet of clumsy words: you know that place between sleep and awake where you’re still dreaming but it’s slowly slipping? i wish we could feel like that more often. i also wish i could click my fingers three times and be transported to anywhere i like. i wish that people didn’t always say just wondering when you both know there was a real reason behind them asking. and i wish i could get lost in the stars. listen, there’s a hell of a good universe next door, let’s go.”
— e. e. cummings
— e. e. cummings
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