a love letter
You are the fistfight in the local grocery store. Far more fun than you have any right to be, honestly.
You are the creepy mannequin at Janpath. Equal parts pretty and unsettling.
You are the blood spattered harmonica. There is a strange story behind you.
You are the substitute teachers bruise mark. Mysterious, a source of gossip perhaps?
You are distant booming laughter. Foreboding, but nice, in time
You are the barrel of antlers at the antique shop. Full of the prettiest parts of many dead things.
All those who wander are not lost 