You must be an unusual sort of person to possess a creature.
The sort who has rarely settled amongst others. The sort who finds peace in rain and breathes wood smoke and oceans. Who never has adequately tidy bookcases and finds beauty in the lost. Who, as a child, thought Things came alive at night for mischief and biscuits. Who quietly relishes the patina of old spoons and the edges of dying petals. Who hid monochromatic bindings of macabre faiytales behind the ones in technicolour. Who knows how to push bubbles from the dish soap bottle. Who likes addressing their envelopes unconventionally. Who searches daisy petals with passion and guilt. Who needs to recharge after being in the world. Who thinks their cats are people incarnated with fur. Who peers into museum cases long after others have moved on. Who smells books with the relish others give to smelling coffee. Who doesn’t mind the poetry of radios seeking certain air. Who talks to their flowers. Who has had to store books in fireplaces. Who craves freedom in reality. Who once pulled at a dictionary and tenderly searched its thin leaves for ‘anachronism’. Who sometimes turns off the electric bulbs and lives by candlelight, not just during storms. Who reads stories about the eccentric lives of people in old Parisian buildings. Who is entranced by sunlight flashing through a dusty window. Who wishes they could take photographs that look like life from their eyelashes. Who is thirsty for secret magic and plant-filled Victorian conservatories. Who craves elegance and romance in the unusual, in a world of crudity and clumsy spectacle. Who wants to gather the meaningful and refuses to be surrounded by the vapid. Who allows mystery.