The sort of lovely people driven to urgent confessions and poetic expressions, who write billet doux they never send, snatch mementos and trophies of beloved, and adore another in anguish, pain, unhappiness, pleasure and joy, before committing their privacies to paper and stashing their secret confessions between their frilly knickers.
Those sort of people. They are the best sort of people. They set me hunting for angel feathers and articulated owls. And while I'm scavenging between the junk for the pure feather of a fallen angel or the wobbling joints of an owl, I find, perfectly singing the rhythm of my crooked house, a pair of crooked candles, both with fork handles.
Life, fitting me well.
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