isn't it true, sir, that your eyes are made of sunshine?
oh, don't look at me like that, i blush so.
why don't you tell me a story, like you used to?
tell me about the trees, and how they dance with the wind.
and when you laugh, sir, does your voice come from thunder?
because i know, when you cry, your tears come from the sea.
and sir, tell me your secrets, those you tell noone,
about who you loved, and what you sang to her.
isn't it true, sir, that you were humming the songs of raindrops,
when she was taken away in a hurricane, and buried under the apple trees?


happy fourth birthday, blog!


being older is overrated.