Writing Letters

It is a lost art. I realized this morning that I never did achieve the perfect place to write. That perfect place would be a fine writing desk that has a view of an endless garden in the English Countryside. The house would be heated by multiple fire places and staffed by a group of adoring much loved servants that knew their place. There would be some mist falling while I penned long thoughtful sentences on fine parchment with a gold tipped quill pen.

Okay so back to reality. No great surface. It is covered with papers and photo's and other miscellaneous junk. The view is of a palm tree. The pen is good but the favorite pen has decided not to flow appropriately. The letters are written. Not great words but words that might bring a smile to the new group of college girls that are so happy to be in their dorms without their mothers.