As the rooms are emptied of the clutter, and as the garden clutters up with growth to hide the brown dirt floor, I sense a calmer, satisfying substance flow within my veins, hear a murmur rather than a roar.
But still, somewhere deeply hidden, out of earshot of the mantra, something whispers dye your hair a floozy flaming red.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Sultry Susan – go for it baby!