I took my suitcase and walked to the top of the hill, where I saw the sun rising. The wheat was everywhere, around me, under me, yet I still managed to hike up to the top of the hill barefoot with a dozen or so balloons. I love balloons. I love the way they make me feel so light and airy, because I am never able to feel that way, especially at home. One day, I got bored so I wrote a word on each of my balloons, something impromptu that just came up to me like a dash of lightning. My father once gave me a red balloon on my birthday with a golden box. I quickly took the balloon and began jumping around the house with it, but I left the box on the piano and never touched it. It's still there, for I have never had the chance to look inside it. I just never had the time because I was too busy daydreaming and using my imagination painting the sky. I would always paint things in the sky, arbritary things such as keys and sunflowers.
So here I am, holding the balloons in my hand and suitcase in another. I