Strange and Beautiful

Everyday I receive these thin, little scrolls.

They declare all these wonderful verses of truth and profess confessions of a beauty I never knew anyone could posses.

I do not find myself worthy of what all those words say.

But perhaps there is a inexplicable fascination in that nihilism that consumes me when I unscroll the piece of paper and begin to read.

I don't really remember now what it was I wanted to say in this blog, or even praise.

I was sitting in front of this screen and I began typing exactly what was on my mind.

I read today's magestic scrawl when I was walking and I stopped concentrating on my steps, or worrying about stepping on the lines in the concrete, because all that existed was this piece of paper, my hands, my green nail-polish, and those words.

And I was happy.

Period.