When do you feel most alive?

Maybe this is a journal entry. Small joys, stolen moments, and refusing to let the world make you numb.

Yesterday afternoon, as the sun poured into our little Brooklyn backyard, the temperatures reached a positively balmy 54-degrees. In New York terms, this is basically t-shirt weather – or fool’s spring. I took a seat next to Nina on the brutalist concrete bench we dragged over from our last apartment, remnants of a dining set we once swore we’d keep for…