tea pots open the creaky door behind which Happiness waits. not the bull-shit useless kind; which, though beautiful, bring only anxiety in the knowledge of clumsiness and annihilation...ya, i don't use those.
sturdy, funky tea pots. full of piping hot water and fresh leaves and bits of herb relief.
i am a constant of happy child and wintry-souled woman. tea pots warm the aging siren and cheer the goofy girl.
my being belongs to the minor chords.
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