I don't know how any of this is supposed to make you want to
give me your love. I tried to tell you. I'm only trying to
make something that isn't a lie be more beautiful than anything
you've seen. I've never been a mostly sunny person. Not
even on a perfect day inside the primal green. I didn't know how slow
it all was then, or how hard it is now, to tell you
my feelings on life as being a constant tour of the
heart. I enjoy the tiny bluebell because in spite of
everything she has written a symphony. Right in the middle of the conflict. I
can hear you say, this has nothing to do with us, but, of
course, I disagree. I would never want to have fun at
your expense. That's the cold difference between us, but it's
enough to belong in a poem. Our bluebell is the irrational genie in the
pale grass, a sun-lit bottle of stars and wind waiting to happen to
you. She shouldn't be there. Doesn't she know we are the
number one wanted killers of the known universe? I'd open
the locked gates for you. I don't know the consequences if I did, but
I know what they are if I refuse to acknowledge that kind of
absolute love. The bluebell is a falling star. The bluebell is
a strangely silent whale. The bluebell is a comical castle.
The bluebell is the exquisite gift of experience. The bluebell is the warm embrace
you forgot you once asked the universe for. The bluebell is a keyhole.
Bluebell is playing an original song for you. When it's over,
it's over. Figure it out before it's too late. The
bluebell is not the danger you are in. The bluebell is a humble ocean.
The bluebell is not the end of anything. That bluebell is a citizen
living on the outskirts of this wild town. To be bored
is just too boring. The bluebell is a silk tunnel.
The bluebell is the reincarnation of a single raindrop that fell on your head.
That's not all. Our conversation is a bluebell. The bluebell was all I
had left to say. I guess. The bluebell was something I
was dreaming. You're in its place. Corner of my eye.