oval raze it's olive-shaped with a wood frame. i'm sure it's older than i am. he saw it hanging on the wall of a clothing store when he was shopping for whoever he was dating then. he fell in love with the mirror and an old chair. he asked the woman working there if she'd be willing to sell both of them. she said yes. and now he wants to see if he can unload an oblong confidante that hasn't seen either one of our faces in years. i understand why. it's like he said. we don't have anywhere to put it. there won't ever be a place for it if we don't end up in a larger house someday. and unless we win the lottery or some psychopath wants to pay me a fortune to put one of my songs in a condom commercial, it isn't going to happen. but getting rid of something he bent the rules to buy feels like letting that last bit of hope die. and i don't know if i want to see something that precious slip away. 220729 what's it to you? who go blather from