I live in San Francisco, the city of the eternal Saturday afternoon.
I make food. I eat food. I go places. I take pictures of those places.
But I always cook too much pasta.
"Tho the dark be cold and blind, Yet her sea-fog’s touch is kind, And her mightier caress Is joy and the pain thereof; And great is thy tenderness, O cool, grey city of love!”
(Looking east from Bernal Heights Park, San Francisco.)
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