Number 97
Write about a blue-colored object.
Waking up every morning, I look at my bed comforter. It is blue and of the nicest shades of it. I stare at my blue, star and moon designed bedding and drift off into my own world. I wrap myself inside its softness, loving how it was the only thing that made me good no matter what. I'd invision myself crawling underneath, holding a flashlight and telling stories of the far off lands of maidens and knights to the stuffed animals like the little girl I should've been. But then I realize that I am not that girl. This is just a bed comforter. It was that and nothing more, so I never bothered with it. I would spill stuff on it, sleep on it, and allow myself to destroy something that made me feel soft and warm. That was how it was with my blue bed comforter.
Write about a blue-colored object.
Waking up every morning, I look at my bed comforter. It is blue and of the nicest shades of it. I stare at my blue, star and moon designed bedding and drift off into my own world. I wrap myself inside its softness, loving how it was the only thing that made me good no matter what. I'd invision myself crawling underneath, holding a flashlight and telling stories of the far off lands of maidens and knights to the stuffed animals like the little girl I should've been. But then I realize that I am not that girl. This is just a bed comforter. It was that and nothing more, so I never bothered with it. I would spill stuff on it, sleep on it, and allow myself to destroy something that made me feel soft and warm. That was how it was with my blue bed comforter.
