six | year two
the only people for me are the
mad ones
mad to live
mad to talk
mad to be saved
the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing
but burn, burn, burn
like fabulous yellow roman candles
exploding like spiders across the stars
(j. kerouac)
there were a few noteworthy yellow roman candles woven into the fabric of my year. i pause today to remember each of them — my confidants, my co-conspirators, my companions. the next few posts are my tributes to them, a small expression of my gratitude for the countless ways they have enriched my days.
a comfort not forgotten.
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