Justine. Mid-twenties. Manhattan. Lover of homemade pancakes with extra butter and syrup, bare feet in grass not quite warm enough to lay in, crisp white wine: chilled and over-poured, fresh powder on a bluebird day and the sun, in all its forms. Just trying to dance through this one life with grace, when it’s almost always ungraceful — writing letters, reading books and probably feeling a little too much on the daily.