In one charity shop, they sell naked Barbies.
Babies like peekaboo. They're also bouncers.
Pigeons are everywhere.
Reading is not a hobby, it's a necessity. I love to look at books on shelves, polished and worn with love; adventures continuously visited in their pages. I drink them in before I dive into the pages myself.
Plot holes - fill with the cement of careful planning.
Do you remember how you felt upon seeing your own reflection for the first time? Or when you first saw a shadow?
Ideas are like magic, as I'm certain you know, and you have to write them down - the words forever stuck on paper like flies trapped in spiderwebs - before the enchantment, their glory and power, ebbs away and disappears back into the mind's lazy oblivion.
A ladybird sounds like a miniature helicopter as it whizzes by my ear. It always lands on my hand and shoulder. Is it lifting my spirit with the essence of its own?
Friends lost, friends found. Friends remembered.
I refuse to give up hope, and my dreams (the good ones, I mean).
A brilliant yellow moon, like an orb-shaped streetlight, a beacon in the foggy night sky.
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