You really are a persistant little thing, aren't you?
Four years now we've had this goddamn flat, with its grey walls and this no hope of a back yard, and yet there you still are. I've caught sight of you every day; doing the washing up, cooking whatever it is we can afford, counting the bricks in the wall when I'm waiting for the council to ring... you're between the sixth and seventh brick on the fifth row up from the paving on the floor. There's nothing on the floor except puddles and pebbles, no grass or weeds or anything. How did you do it?
Still, I'm not complaining or anything, about this place. I mean, considering the short notice at which we had to move here, it's a miracle there was anywhere at all with wheelchair access available, just like that. And Tom likes it well enough here - I'm sure you've seen him pottering around behind me, grabbing everything at eye level like he's still a child!...I shouldn't have said that, I know.
I point you out sometimes, when he's feeling low, I hope you don't mind. He used to really like flowers, especially violets like yours. He still does, what am I talking about? He told me you're a, a Merbly...a Murberry...a Mulberry, is that right?
I guess we both wish sometimes that we'll wake up and nothing will have happened, and we'll still be settled in that semi detatched house - two storeys all to ourselves! - before the accident, before the recession, before everything turned against us and we were left dependant on a government that doesn't give a - but we're managing fine right now, perfectly fine.
.....Gosh, I must be mad. I'm talking to a flower.
Let's go for....lime green, if it hasn't been done. And apologies if I've burst in on a private collaboration =D.