I smell the hot and sticky petrichor this morning, one in which you are most certainly in love, Sir. There are whispers of reciprocation in the same air and that is surely a splendid thing. It sates my hope for legitimacy.
Or has dulled the tease of a stronger story. I’m unsure.
Sir, do you smell that same air or is yours of a fresher make? Mine is a beauty I envision. I wonder if yours is a famous painting. I hope it brings you slender ease to know you’re in on this trick. It must make the walk and the uniting cameras uncomplicated. We’re going to critique how you look at her. I hope you won’t mind. How do the apples of your garden taste? I bet they taste sweet with a hint of ironic bitter. I bet they taste better than ours and our paltry lot.
In the offing, they salute you. They come together and pay for your garden with such ease – they and their modern day offering. Sir, your garden is splendid. It is made of the many working hards now clapping.
“Come together right now over me.”