“The day the ground starts to get wet, everyone that I’ve ever met has an away message that says, ‘Faintest snow keep falling.’ New diners are packed out
with old friends. We’re overwhelmed but unimpressed. I miss the days when I knew every single waitress. We’ll find a house party when the bars close. We’ll never spend the holidays alone. Proving once again that there’s a reason my friends still tend to call this place home.”
Bee Walsh. Poetry Editor at "The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society." 24 years old. Veg. Edge. Feminist. Professional in NYC. Avid Post-Card Sender. Politics, Poise, Permutations. Lover of the loudest music. Beard enthusiast. Hues of purple aficionado.