oh, how i wish the things i’d find in my email inbox every day were sweet symphonies. small, delicious feasts. poems from inside the light of an endless bright star. golden-toned photographs of a 90-year old man pouring his daily cuppa tea. why can’t my box be stuffed with a thousand or more songs that leap, some shining stars, a little knowledge, tiny stories, light bouncing out of the glistening cup? why can’t there be magic when i click open?
i don’t want to buy or sell your things. i want to know where your soul has been.