Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing to you from where I always write—bed. This bed doesn't belong to me however, but to an expensive hotel where I have no business being, except that I've made a deal with the owners to pay very little in ex-change for leaving the room early in the morning and not returning till noon. In my absence, they paint the walls in watercolors. Two days ago, the wall to my left was completely white, but now I see a partial mural there, marching daily towards the ceiling. I confess— the details are so intriguing that yesterday, instead of joining a tour group to the World's largest botanical garden, I wandered around the hotel alone and in a funny state of mind.

Yours, in beauty,  L.X.

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