There may be no more pushing off the stool, or no more fruit friends, but I’ll always gallop with gay abandon, and I’ll always find a euphemism in anything. I’ll always sing if someone inadvertently speaks song lyrics and I’ll always love the word “plunge”. And that is not being a child, but sometimes the world needs to be jollied.
Mother and daughter. Mother’s protective instinct
has become dominating,
fuelled by fear of how she
is perceived by outer world. Daughter seeks mother’s guidance
and approval as she has yet
to find her own voice. Absolute rubbish.