One million little words could never accurately describe: a Sunday one-hour-drive to an annual adventure in a car named after a certain Russian psychologist, coincidentally rounded out with dogs (although with less salivation) in a best friends double-double take of last year's twinnery, and certainly a repeat of last year's fun, attention, in aweness of amazing creativity and potentiality, and of delicious sandwiches munched in mirror-image amidst clouds of compliment and Coke Zero mist, all eyes and hugs and smiles and steampunks with twirly mustaches and microphones, drinking blood without a vampire in sight but that doesn't mean no Mondo Spiders, raccoon girls and mushrooms everywhere, sassy towards lab coats and ascots but nonetheless making new friendleighs, seeing old friends and seeing old friends' faces on shirts with barely opened mouths full of ice, hutia mugs written in Chinese say "what a good day!" when they don't even know the half of it because they don't even know the magic of the table they're sitting on or the woman who painted them, two years running as the strongest twins at the mouse trap even if we didn't land that television spot, and unexpected Donald Duck warbling soothing sore legs and feet with accordion sighs, little children with jackets half-off just wanting to be friends and just good good good in every way to see people care so much and feel so much whether they're asking for pictures or sneaking them while we're very obviously looking. Grateful for best friends, moms, best friend's mom, best friend moms, easy drives with the headlights on, the potential for new penpals no matter how old, an amazing little microcosm of a world where we are always welcome. If only it weren't such a little microcosm of a world.
