I like the word "miscellaneous."
I don't like the word "moist."
I like eating warm apple crisp, and drinking down my hot cocoa so fast it scalds the back of my throat.
I don't like brussel sprouts.
I like reading until I'm so wrapped up in the book that I forget who I am and what I've done.
I don't like letting go of those last few precious words and being jerked painfully back into reality.
I like walking without knowsing where I'm going;
I don't like coming to the end of a journey.
I like listening to music that makes me want to belt its lyrics from the rooftops.
I do not like music that is degrading.
I like writing something that will brush up against another lost and lonely soul, like the tip of a passing butterfly's wing gently tracing a pattern on the petal of an un - opened flower, with the hope that the flower might unfurl even the tiniest bit of its radiant beauty, for me to gaze upon, in the dimming light of my own fading glory