A sunrise in pastels.

Small town life, where flashing high beam low beams has a wicked cool communication to it. -Bonus points if they were controlled by a button on your car floor.

It was the best of times when butter-rum lifesavers could truly save you.

I could make a mixtape about it.

In perfect beams of sun.

It’s a wild world sort of moonrise.

Thickly misted fog, the sunrise erupts.

Under the moon, a spirit.

I recall the I don’t like night shift days. Now I’m awake as if I’m working them.

Something in the air.

Of mist and moonrise and burgundy sunsets.

Extra pepperoni pizza and chill?

Sunrise in layers.

I do like going to the grocery in the middle of the night. Rest from ninja duties.

Wearing socks to bed defeats the one foot out theory.

Cuz

Sunrise.

Ending every conversation today with “or are you just happy to see me”

Twilight.

October sunrise 🧡

Thank you @mlipsitt.bsky.social for including me in your pack full of wonderful resisters. I appreciate you 💙🫶 Please check out, follow, and share go.bsky.app/586VSeP

Full of malarkey until the cows come home is a valid method of time and volume.

Listen, I had to walk across the room to switch my a/c to fan. Like the olden days of 1975 or something.

Lava sunset.

Sometimes I take on a few more seemed like a good idea at the time projects to overthink about. (Adds insomniac to my resume)

I’m like a car that needs a tune up- running hot but it’s cold. (Better than yelling menopause into the void, right?)

Ibuprofen? Now you’re just showing out.

The whole sleep thing. Sounds made up.

The thunder rumbles.

Well I, for one, think you’re wicked cool.

You crack me up, and that’s not just the egg talking.

Ok, it was warm enough for ice cream today. Strange but true.

I am like if ‘jump to recipe’ was a person

Sunrise in pastels.

I don’t know, but they’re doing the hustle down aisle 4.

Such as a sunrise sky.

Late night text from grown kids about laundry issues is why I suggest a clothesline.

Life.. Go play guitar about it.

Sunrise and storms.

We all have that friend who’s like a fruit tart- a tad sweetly sour on the inside, flaky on the out. I may be that one friend, actually.

All of the loudest thunderstorms happen in the middle of the night, like it’s the rule or something.

Can’t. I’m laying a dope melody.

In tangerine 🧡

Listen, rapture isn’t just a Blondie song, allegedly.

My circadian rhythm just doesn’t get me.

I knew I had reached some sort of new level when stating “Is there a reason to peel the carrots to within an inch of their lives?!”

Baked a chicken. I’m now a meal prep connoisseur. -Adds to resume

No, weirder.

Believe me being up in middle of the night doesn’t get you invited to the things that go bump parties.

I am lost in a sea of pumpkins. I am not mad about this.