Yesterday’s lonely suit feels unworn.

{Practising Emerson's advice.}

Dear you,

No longer do I need to converse with an upturned broom head leaning against the laundry door. (Spare me your cries of ‘Wilson’. Had not the madness of a desert-island Hanks to me. Yet, I grant you. Yet. But you’ll note I say ‘had’ not ‘have’. I feel it’s all behind me. Past tense, you see. Besides, my friends of decidedly made-up variety never took on appearance of a ball with an imprinted hand for a face. My fruit in the kitchen never featured a series of tiny faces drawn with pen upon their pitted or smooth surfaces. No unmistakable personalisation of objects for me. Now, where was I?) Found delicious companionship today and spoke until I was hoarse. Yesterday’s lonely suit feels unworn. I feel much restored to vim and vigour wellness stakes. Much like my old self. The old self, that is, that I prefer to share.

Yours never tired of a chinwag,
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