Hyde Park Rambling.

I'm sitting in the park and the wind is blowing and I'm thinking about how nice it would be to be in love. I'm waiting for my friends who are late, once again. Why does it seem that I'm always waiting.... for someone, something. Either waiting or rampantly rushed...... with someone waiting for me? It seems a bit ironic. Someone's always waiting, I suppose.

I wish I could paint a picture of this scene. But I'm no good with words and I won't even try. Something always ends up over exaggerated or depreciated and everything ends up completely misrepresented. And I'm a mess, I'm all over the place. I'm all over this page.

I'm wearing crochet and my hair is straight and it smells quaintly of lemongrass and musk. It's Wednesday. I haven't done anything profound or relevant and I'll blame it on the fact that it's Wednesday.