Monday, December 21, 2020

I live in a mansion, with room after room after room. The carpets are worn along the path I run: library, salon, ballroom.

In my frolic, I rarely notice the closed doors. What rooms have I yet to see? The kitchen, the laundry. Who toils in secret to bring me my toast?

Let me slow and be grateful for all who support me.

(Letter #2,172)