We all have hearts. I don’t mean the organ. I don’t mean the one inside you that keeps the beat of your biology. I mean your heart of hearts.
We all have hearts. They are made of felt. Some are stuffed. Some are not stuffed. They all hang in a dusty old closet in a creaky green house.
I visited that house once. I have forgotten how to get there. Have you been there? Do you remember the way?
So many forgotten hearts. So many many. But what is this? There is a piece of felt in my pocket. Perhaps a tiny piece of heart felt.
The Lunar Fox Press 