Somedays raisons feel less like grapes and more like fingertips

Currently, I'm working in a journal whose picture is posted to the left (to the left to the left, everything you own in a box to the left). Actually right ( I frequently confuse the two because intuitively the way I feel about my right hand is affectionate and the word right is such a hard sound. Like rain on a windsheild, but left is softer. Like babies in a park) 

This journal is my first completely private one. In the past I've folded over pages, or claimed journals to be private to keep them hidden from certain people, but this one is legitimately private. For that reason, I think I'll be pulling  more from other journals, which, for the most part, are public.

But, for today, I'm going to post one thing from this joural. To kick off this journal journey is something small and literal: Art.

I am a big advocate of art. Art is great and pretty and wonderful and I am not that good at it? Mostly I just have a box of paints, soft pastals, and oil pastals. But I'm a big fan of this piece. 

I like this piece because when I'm reading books (specifically a satirical one) they talk about the future being filled with lamp lit streets and just not being a nice place because it will be too bright, too public, too technological. 

I happen to love street lamps. 

I feel like here I show how lamps look to me. Blue, warm, and lovely.