Paint that shit gold.

I don't know much other than this constant feeling in the pit of my stomach reminding me of how much I want to leave. I want pine trees, friendship bracelets, humidity, sweet tea, Dylan, Whitman, Kerouac, fresh air, laced fingers (as always), jean cutoff shorts and a new beginning. The last semester and I'm ready to call your bluff. Prove me wrong. Or not.