Look who got the Sam Edelman hook-up... seriously, south of my ankles has never been so damn cool.
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A museum of silence and imagery... From Lincoln Avenue to Garden of the Gods and all the way back from where I’d started, a charming hippie village proliferates with seriously righteous tie-dye. And like some mutant offspring, it just kept multiplying. Even as the snowcap milieu put my vertiginous vaults to shame, I somehow balanced my stems atop the semi-rough terrain with very minimal complaint. A garland amongst snaking mountainside sidewalks, the endless roads cemented an impish escapade as a monochrome skyline released a layer of snowfall… blanketing this bucolic scene in a whimsy of white. Never a hindrance to the wiles of feminine philosophy, I ardently gadabout with expensive latte concoctions, feeling the secret rush of my spontaneous Colorado reprieve. But as the final countdown took my euphoric lift with hollowing reflection, I abort the word goodbye from my vocabulary. (Faux fur caplet, gloves, and boy's blazer, vintage. T, French Connection. Jeans, Guess. Heels, ...