Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with no air?

I left the bookstore with such as sense of life, a bought, broken melancholy that made no difference whether I had money or not. I think someone who really understands this is Avvy. To have taken Henry David Thoreau seriously (living deliberately) is one of the consistent joys we have had and shared all though life, now seemingly lost, and I am caught in the envy of life-love. She expresses it through pictures, and I, in my satisfactory sighs of comfort, and occasionally, the prosaic. Which over time has diminished as the blog may testify. Money buying time, or time buying money- both seem sad either way. Was I not gifted with time, am I yet not gifted with it? Should I accuse myself of not prioritizing life, does my atrophy stand a product of my finicky laziness? I will finish my thesis draft and have some life today.

Babe. This picture is way too old and we don't look glam enough to be a Ch(e)ong. I'm coming home to take some more.