With this post, I am officially calling dibs on Oren Lavie.

Soon she's down the stairs Her morning elegance she wears The sound of water makes her dream Awoken by a cloud of steam She pours a daydream in a cup A spoon of sugar sweetens up

Sun been down for days A winter melody she plays The thunder makes her contemplate She hears a noise behind the gate Perhaps a letter with a dove Perhaps a stranger she could love

Today, using addresses given to me by friends on the internet, I prepared and mailed tiny packages to London, Seattle, Atlanta, Brooklyn, Carolina Beach, Herts, Cambria, Dumfries, Burlington, Urbana, Roanoke, Phoenix, and Manhattan. A fine spread, beautiful evidence of the far reaching influence of modern communication.

I sat in a puddle of white envelopes at the park, addressing them, tipping ingredients into one, and then into another, slipping cards into each, slipping in cards, rose petals, and my smile, wishing I had through to bring more tiny plastic dinosaurs. The sky was almost like summer today, except too pale, as if seen through a film of soap.

Curious pedestrians would stop and ask what I was doing, wanted to know if this was a business I had, sending interesting letters to strangers. I told them this was far too bare bones, that I was too poor to be anything but kind in a nostalgic way. "People have trusted me, wouldn't you want to reward such behavior?" This seemed to satisfy as, once I said that, they would gently walk away, glad to have asked, but not interested enough to stay.