A letter to myself from me: Dear Felicity,
How are you these days? How are your legs, your ears? your arms? your tongue? Have you tasted sweet Bulgarian honey lately? It's certainly delicious. Have you worn the clothes of a redheaded longshoreman? Have you lost or found anything? I think it's good to ask questions. I also think it's good to answer them, but only if you can.
I've been having odd dreams lately. Swimming and crawling and jawlocking dreams. Sometimes I am a fish and other times I am stroking the hind of bovine. Sometimes I ride comets and the scaled tails of alligators. I can't help but think these images are all connected to the breakfast cereal I eat each morning at 7 am. I must admit, it's too hard to figure out completely. Perhaps I should grow a beard and rub from it all the inner wisdoms of the world.
It's a blue sky sunshine hum kind of day outside. I think the sun has an awful lot to say. It's glowing fingers are beseeching me outward. I think it wants to play a round of double dutch, which I am not very good at, so I may indeed opt out, and instead ask the sun to tea, or a session of tap dancing our shadows across the moon.
On that fine note (g minor) I shall now pull myself from these words and into the day that is now.
Until the next wave of communication rings our ears to pink, be well.