I’m in love with unmade beds. Full of possibility. The whispers of “it’s not over” and “we can still do this”. Maybe a sick day, a mini vacation, a romp in the woods, an FU for the daily grind. Fantasies abound.
An unmade bed is a perfect mess, refreshingly wrinkled and warm. Non-judgemental regardless of our waffling. It waits, reserving our seat, cloaked in layers of comfort. Layers of fuzzy leisure. Seduction of silk and satin.
A Fish Named Karen 