Of Mice and Meandering Thoughts

Sick of viewing the flowers to just crumble beneath the crusted snow. Why can't we just go on Watching Birds, singing to the warmth in the wind, laughing in the musical notes of the water and dreaming in the garden? Things were so much less complicated back at the time where you would dream of other things and when they were far less of a reality. Now that they seem to be real, I just want to revert time back to summer, spend time with my pen and paper and lug a piano around on my back, crawling from town to Cotswold town with naught but my skin, my song and my heart. No one can take that from me, no one can demand it either. Why does being a hippie sound so promising?

If not to dwell on hugging-trees, let us commence with bohemia. Why did you seem to think that totes, v-necks, and canvas shoes were too peculiar? I know as well as any that my style was eclectic -- a little boarder, a little vintage, a little chic... but wouldn't that make things more interesting? You don't know if I would blend in to being a tomboy opposed to being able to make my way down a runway.

You cannot predict my mood.

Why must things alway need to progress? First and foremost, you know where you stand. At the moment, standing is as far as you'll get. Walking is complicated with locked knees, swimming is worse with amputated limbs. What did you think about the weed-picking? It got rid of a good many dreadful things, did it not?
And speaking of dreadful things, why mustn't I have the potential and the fortune to find those who wish to be found? I am so desiring to be able to expel my particular emotion- but I have seen that life is vastly different in this particular moment.

I'm making money by Watching Birds, but I don't feel no richer.

I never had the chance to change the batt'ries in my watch.

Love you, dearest. I cannot wait to see you tomorrow. ♥