Day No.297: Flowers, bombs, a piece of memory ( In no order )

New York Tulips, rare and tastes like whatever you put in it. I've always liked tulips and orchids. Of course they need parents. Of course if one parent decides to punch the solar plexus of the other, the plants can feel free to call the police.
I always believe that there is always power to do the right thing, but one always feels like a flower.

There's the gift. 23 from the red paper. To a purple book of memories. I ask, is it worth it? Deal with the pain, I say. I've been dealing with this for 10 years now. Maybe I'm enjoying it. A book of memories. It's white but in 336 hours it'll be full of conflict, full of hope. Or both.

When you put C4 on people's head, it's a mistake. They die, of course. Then their friends and relatives take revenge. Hate begets hate. They use bullets these days, you know. Luckily there's death sentence. Death for bullets. Buy them at 7-11, use them what you will. The waters carry the blood of our forefathers. Don't they know it's dirty? God's overpopulation control. It's either condoms or guns. Or no men. Or just bees and flowers. Orchids and tulips.

Every 4 years I catch a glimpse of the ghost orchid. I live in a glass house. But I see the ghost orchids every 4 years. I have no luck, or bad luck. They're the same. *Trumpets blare*