It is easy then, to fall in love with an ideal. To believe in the vision implanted. To read the meaning you really wish to see behind the words. To dream the impossible, and believe, holding on with your whole heart.

But this is cut by reality, like a razor blade on a mirror, and the daily grind of being face to face always falls short of dreams. Like granite, it weighs on the soul, and caught between the millrind and the base, what spits out is just chaff.

I listen to Tony while I can, but then I have to sit with Frank and watch him clean his toes. Moonlight and flowers weighed against the substantially solid one dirty sock.

Yet there is little alternative. I am right where I have put me. I cannot blame someone else. I wore nothing but scarves today for all of 5 minutes... like the faerie. But then I thought what if the postman or someone else came to the door, and I had to run and change into prosaic and ordinaire, like my mouse brown hair.

It has gray in it now. My summers will fade too.  ¶ 5:58 PM