There's always a story.
You barely need to disturb your imagination to tell it.
You've been there. You've seen it.
Then there's the bobby. Eavesdropping, for Scotland Yard, perhaps?
Stretch reality just a bit.
And you have . . . a ghost writer? Perhaps.
It wears a cape and a crown. There's a lizard and the letter F embroidered on the cape. Nice brows.
Someone knows my assistant's name. When I ask, it's amnesia it claims. Yes, I bought a puppet. I discovered it in the bottom of the bag with those two pillows. May wonders never cease.
I'm finally parting with one of my favorite postcards. Such a lovely face. The red kimono is called a Japanese dress. Really.
This. This a place I'd like to be, except the ground looks like it's covered in the pale pollen that's dusted Katy. Some clings to the window screens.
Here sets a variety of the colors of Spring. On an envelope. I'm down for awhile with a painfully swollen knee. So, I get time to sit, ponder, wonder at the world I see through yon window, while I wait to see what develops on the page before me. Poetry it ain't. Fun it is! I even have time to dust off my rusty drawing skills. And write another letter or three. Oh! And wait until I can mosey around without a cane again. I got some of the best-ever mail! Ever. Time to say goodnight now 'cause my bottom is numb. Sitting isn't all it's cracked up to be. Oh, woe is me.
All the little bits made a whole. Thank you, and good mail to you.