The last flirtations of daylight retreated behind the hills as I kicked my feet together, in a hopeless attempt to remove the snow from my boots, before opening the backdoor. The smell of pan-seared steaks from a local farmer greeted me as I walked into the kitchen. "Fuck New York," I said to my roommates with a grin on my face like a thirteen-year-old that had just found a Playboy stashed in his older brother's dresser.
Edge reading on Sunday morning.
Function over form. Nike SFB.
Distance makes the heart fonder.
Here are some more links,
Getting Away (Picasa),
Two and a Half Hours (ART).