'Be kind,
Be true,
You're blessed,'

I mumbled to myself as I was smoking a cigarette waiting at the Portland train station on a sunny afternoon. I repeated that to myself plenty of times because I wanted to remember it. It felt nice to say it. Not perfect, not so perfect, but neat, quite neat. Like those little square fabric my mother had, yet to be quilted.

You're in no hurry.


Mothagesso.