Iove wolf

When I hear thunder in New York for the first time, the first thing I do is text you that I am afraid. Then I open my window completely—and I am able to do this because I removed the suicide prevention locks after you spent your first night here and I realized my room would be too hot every following night after that—and I stick out my arm, measuring cup in hand. I collect rain water, storm water, sky tears. This means good luck. I want a cup full of good luck. I want eight ounces of good luck. Two-hundred-and-fifty milliliters of good luck. Sixteen alligator gulps of good luck. A mouthful of good luck. But I don’t need this. When I see lightning in New York for the first time, the first thing I do is text you that I am so lucky. When I fall in love in New York for the first time, the first thing I do is have tea with you.