The world is full of poetic moments, like finding a typewriter in a thrift store for a mere $5. I wonder what life it lived before, and whose life it was part of. Were they poets of concrete gardens, typing files for big shot bosses or were they quiet writers who make half page notes to remember their life.
Objects such as these are like the romantic summers of young things. When the romance fades, they are tucked away--only to be found by a new romantic longing for a summer fling. I'd like to have a fling with this little type writer. We could sit in the garden in silk and lace. It will keep me entertained with words strung out neatly, romantically. It will charm me with the notion of being inspiring. We shall engage in a discourse so fueled with passion the garden folk would blush.
Perhaps if I am kind to it, it won't wither away like the blossoms. It will stay everlasting, holding fast to my heart. But if the winter creeps into our romance, we will have a stack full of poetic moments to commemorate our garden rendezvous.
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