Friday, February 18, 2011

The One Where It's Hayden Fox's Fault.

Dear Lover,

I sing in the shower.
And curl my upper lip when I'm washing the dishes.
I like to chew gum.
I mean,  actually chew gum.
Little pops and smacks and all.
And I like to hang bouquets of flowers upside down from the corners of doors and the ceiling fan pull cord.
But never know what to do with them after they've dried.
Still.  I love flowers.
Actually, every single painting in my room is a floral arrangement of some sort.
Except for one.
A Paint-By-Numbers of a little cottage.
With mountains and thick-trunk trees.
Bountiful pink roses hiding a rickety wooden fence. 
A man sitting alone at a small table, observing it all.
And every night, tucked beneath a sheet, a duvet and two quilts, surrounded by my garden.
I look at the shadow of a man in the Paint-By-Numbers painting and say, Goodnight Thoreau.

Oh, and I'm also a hat person.
Though I only have one.
And I hardly ever wear it.
Still.  I like the idea of it.


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