i tried to express my admiration and bewilderment, but i just ended up sounding like a psuedo poetic stalker. i should just fuck off.

it's very poetic, i think, the thought of a woman covered in tattoos, wild black hair and red wine lips with a closet full of black dresses. i know this woman. i saw her shortly after getting a job at the blackbird buvette and she told me that she needed to wear black at work. a collection of black dresses grows in her closet. all cut just above the knee and without sleeves. different fabrics and styles the same black as her eyelashes and little leather ankle boots. she tucks them into the waistband of her underwear, making them puff out like funny little bloomers with big slit pockets. now, she's just walked into the room in a soft black summer dress with a layered skirt. she's wrapped black rope and strips of fabric like five sloppy belts from her ribs to her hips, cinching her waist and bunching the cloth. tattoos of horses cover her right arm while stick and poke words and items sit scattered on her legs. julia, you are a woman from a dream. you knock me down sometimes. cheers.