Most Sincerely,

The juxtaposition of truths in this life astound me. My child now sleeps with socks on his hands. He has skin the texture of silk, softer than a whisper. He has fingernails as unforgiving as thistle. His pillow cheeks now bear evidence of this paradox. Exacerbated beyond "rosy," for awhile I could label them "ruddy," now winter's harshness has complicated matters and the small one sleeps with those tiny budding utensils, which I fantasize will write great poetry and soulfully strum guitar strings, encased in socks, orange tie-dye. 

I am giving away my life. I hope to gain my soul.