cindyloughridge:
Places have their own characters. . . . But the people begin to look the same
cindyloughridge:
Inelegantly, and without my consent, time passed
cindyloughridge:
You are not an observer, you are a participant
cindyloughridge:
damn hell window mirror
cindyloughridge:
We didn't talk about anything heavy or light. We were just there together. And that was enough
cindyloughridge:
Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm
cindyloughridge:
sip
cindyloughridge:
Such moments we steal
cindyloughridge:
oh so mod
cindyloughridge:
Houses are full of things that gather dust
cindyloughridge:
All photographs are self portraits
cindyloughridge:
People think they know the mystery of living in your skin. They don't. There's no one who knows except the person who carts it around her own self
cindyloughridge:
morning ritual
cindyloughridge:
One of those out-of-the-ordinary days that made sense of the slew of ordinary days
cindyloughridge:
THE doublecappuccino
cindyloughridge:
Not every day is very eventful
cindyloughridge:
Every restaurant is a theater
cindyloughridge:
bar tartine
cindyloughridge:
Yes, words are useless. Gobble, gobble, gobble. There is too much of it, darling. Too much. That is why I show you my work! That is why you are here.
cindyloughridge:
O Hai! Hans
cindyloughridge:
salade de laitue
cindyloughridge:
loving, living, everything
cindyloughridge:
affogato
cindyloughridge:
4 barrel
cindyloughridge:
my little china girl
cindyloughridge:
Have you been to the land of happy?
cindyloughridge:
She had long since lost the sense of her dresses and skirts and blouses; they were rote phrases of rayon and cotton that she daily intoned
