I am working diligently on my Amelia Earhart shrine for the local Kingfield "Living Art" show, and no, I don't have any pictures yet. Too bizee to take 'em. So this instead:
Some mornings I wake up from this dream about a friend I haven't seen in 20-odd years, and my chest feels hollowed out with longing for him, for that connection. It feels deliciously right and disappointingly sad at the same time. It's a mystery.