dear santa,

I’d like a quill, some ink and crispy yellowish paper. I’d like a hat to wear with a tilt.
I’d like to sit at an old old mahogany table by the wide window and draw the wispy cream curtains billowing in the breeze. I’d like to pretend that the sudden brightlight hit my eye and squint. Squint and go on to yawn. Squint, yawn, and go on to stretch. I’d moan too, as all good stretchers must.
I’d like to lean back on the chair, and stare out the window. No green fields and unending landscape for me, please. I’d like a crowded market street with yelling and bustling around, and more squinting under the unpityingly wounding sunlight. Oh, if I forgot to mention, I’d like noontime. When the greeeeen of a watermelon and the rrrred of a tomato would beam out competitively next to each other. I’d like to see people laughing and squabbling about thr price of lemons. I'd like to think I can smell the musty, aging pile of books homing silverfish. And yearn to brush the white dust off the ill-tempered bookseller’s hair.
I’d like to sit with my bare feet crossed up on the table, crook an elbow, and prop my head on a palm. I’d like to sit there like that, with droopy eyes under the brim of my hat, staring at the quill and paper. They can wait till I nap.
I’d like to close my eyes to the buzz of a hot and busy day outside.
I’d like to buy some inspiration off the shelf.

Goodily yours,
ro