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The best of Fashion, Art, Sex and Travel.
The past few weeks, in the wake of a stubbornly damp winter, spring has swept through our bones like a crescendoing symphony. A crisp breeze cuts through the velvety sunshine, the air is laced with charcoal and honeysuckle, and huge swaths of California erupted seemingly overnight, drenched in vivid orange poppies, buttery yellow primrose, and rich purple verbena, the superbloom blanketing hillsides in a lush, living tapestry of surreal and shimmering color
In our current cultural moment, there is no such thing as privacy. We simply can’t look away
There are certain feelings that seem to settle on your skin, lingering like faded perfume or wisps of last night’s cigarettes. The way citrus fumes on your fingertips long after you peel and eat it; the way two bodies sigh into each other like wet concrete; the way daffodils slowly unfold themselves when you place them in a patch of sunlight on the coffee table
There’s just something about Ariel Beesley. Something real and raw and infectiously refreshing