thank you modesty, thank you.
here i am in west hollywood, sitting in my office (better known as a coffee shop) and reading through the messages you guys have sent me these last few weeks on my modesty email account pertaining to those who have read " the orphaned anythings ". my chest swelled, i could feel my heartbeat, and i was tearing up (but played it off like i was yawning). thank you so much my dear friends for seeing through me, for belonging; for making me feel like i belong. a conductor stands before his orchestra, prim and proper he approaches the podium, lifts his small cork-ended baton. he lifts it into the air and as if it was magnetically charged the instruments raise in unison at the same time. he taps, for the attention of not the crowd sitting behind him, but of the person's playing the instrument facing him. he then begins to swing frantically seemingly lifting and pulling notes out of thin air, commanding them to be louder and softer, harsh and bitter or light like a feather floati...
