Day 251.

Take notice of the short, i.e. nonexistent, number of days in-between my two posts. I won't grovel for any congratulating on your part, as that is unnecessary, but you should all know that I am most certainly applauding myself.

I write tonight with the pure and sole intent to paint an image in your mind. Read the words slowly. Ponder each sentence. Allow yourself to be encompassed in the image. And, to fully experience this verbally-painted portrait I strongly encourage you begin by playing the following playlist:

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A late rainy evening in September. On a random street of this subtle metropolis sits a modest blue house. A blue house built in 1909. At the back of the house, we find a room added in a later decade. Garish yellow wallpaper covers each wall. Underneath the wallpaper on the west most wall, the bumps and lines of brick are distinguishable. Two long yet slender windows expose the darkness of the young night. Bookshelves, desks and art supplies reside in this romantic studio. A sewing machine hides in the corner, yearning to be used. The maroon paint on the dusty wood floor whispers of the beatings it has taken over the years. A girl sits with her back against the east wall. The muffled sounds of conversation drift from various rooms throughout the house. Seated on the ground, the girl can feel as gravity melds her tailbone to the hard floor. And even then, everything seems right with the world. She allows the rich sounds of jazz to envelope her. With eyes shut tight, she can feel the notes on her finger tips, taste the melody on her tongue. And it sounds so right.