Vanilla Cookies in the Sky

In the series of rather magically fortunate events I am moved to say something uncanny, remarkably silly and perhaps with a tinge of truth? glorious, as is your laugh, I hope I can somehow collect my words before they spill like water from a balloon that has burst into giggles under a sunny May afternoon. I am here because I want to tell you about this joke I read the other day and something about seeing life as a series of laughter, scratchy and high pitched, free like the winds and water, shy and soft, breathless, has had me on the edge. I want to look back and see life in all her rowdy hilarious facial expressions. I want to look back and see myself laughing from one joke to another perhaps a week apart and if I am lucky maybe only a couple minutes away from each other. 

A small abstract painting in the shape of the Moon bc what else looks like a giant cookie in the sky that gets eaten piece by piece, disappearing at the sneaky hands and impatient cravings for something sweet, at the altar of a sweet tooth, what else is stolen lovingly, and savoured crumb after delicious crumb. Oh just when everyone's fast asleep. two little hands reach out for the Moon, a stomach grumbling thunder in anticipation, eyes gleaming a purple lightning streak at the very thought of the chips melting on the reckless tongue. To be a Moon is to be consumed and to be cherished and to be loved and desired and to hang in the sky in different personalities each day. 

"Which one do you like more,"  I'd ask you and hear you laugh. In this Universe, you say,

"All of them, and the ones that are yet to arrive".