Dear things on the wall (which is not my wall),
There is a strangely appealing order in your chaotic masking-tape-tic-tac-sticky-border-madness.
I love the motley mosaic of postcards from places I've never been, but now wish to go— though I'm sure I will miss seeing the stylized city labels flaunting their attractions from amidst the always-azure skies of granulated cardboard.
From perfume to Paris to a page from a Chinese calendar there is something for everyone hanging on your every (illegible) word. You are not perfect, but your dinosaurs watch over my fragile sleeping form and your posters offer a variety of blushly-lipsticked goodnight kisses.
You tell me: I am confident, I am beautiful, I am desirable. And I believe you, who could mistrust your blatant bright pink pandering...
Tell me again?