In an ideal world, my house would be filled to brim with artifacts I did not need or understand. It would be filled with random works of art, piles and more piles of bags, shoes and more useless stuff.
In utopia, all channels would air interesting stuff everyday, and not harp on reruns or movies aired previously a thousand times already. Bloggers would write, and they would write interesting stuff, not mundane or abstract or poetry that would make Lord Byron turn in his grave.
In my dream, I would thin yet shapely, sharp cheekboned, yet full-lipped, possessor of straight yet voluminous hair which never ever got entangled. I would pick designer clothes off the rack, and would search for the smallest possible size, instead of the extra large that I in reality hunt for.
If possible, my life would be all that is the improbable, the impossible and the fantastic.
If only.
In utopia, all channels would air interesting stuff everyday, and not harp on reruns or movies aired previously a thousand times already. Bloggers would write, and they would write interesting stuff, not mundane or abstract or poetry that would make Lord Byron turn in his grave.
In my dream, I would thin yet shapely, sharp cheekboned, yet full-lipped, possessor of straight yet voluminous hair which never ever got entangled. I would pick designer clothes off the rack, and would search for the smallest possible size, instead of the extra large that I in reality hunt for.
If possible, my life would be all that is the improbable, the impossible and the fantastic.
If only.
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