I'll write you a story about white and yellow linen sheets and the smell of lemons tucked between the bespread and the mattress. Then I'll tell you about the sound of glass bottles in a wooden box and how they clack when the man in the apron carries them up the stairs. Or maybe I'll tell you about milk and the way it looks in a clear glass, white and creamy, without fault. And then perhaps I'll say that grass is nice, and it feels a bit like snow under my feet, but warmer, and feathery. It tickles, maybe. Or I'll tell you about love-letters and how when written by hand they are better than dark chocolate and that if sprayed lightly with her perfume they fill a room with lovelovelove and make you think of musty attics and wrinkled sheets and perhaps an abandoned sock or two, and how once they've been found everything turns out for the better. I should write to you about the man on the street in his old blue suit, scarf tied around his neck, tired and wrinkled, both him and the scarf. That's the man that stepped aside to let us pass, hand held out as if to say please, go ahead, its my pleasure. And I'll say how he reminded me of cobbled streets and ice cream falling off its cone and crinkled wallpaper thats peeling off the wall.Or, perhaps i should tell you that the world is best described as


simply beautiful.