The Fox Room.

Tailored in fanciful costume soiled with dirt mixed with moss, wrestling with the echo of maniacal laughter that dares to jump rope with genius. All so familiar. He’s dressed in flannel now, ready, set, go for the fall mirrored in the flickering flames of the unfamiliar.

I can almost hear this eerie lullaby playing off-tune in the gardens on old phonograph record in the dark, notes billowing under weeping willows that stand like towering guards out back beyond the gate — a crisp gust of wind carries the clap of katydids and the distant trail of snow geese beneath the sinister dance between clouds and the cascading stars that seem to swallow the full moon.

We hear crickets in the emptiness within the aftermath of our truth expressed amongst ‘friends’, the tea, glasses clinking and toys tinkering, bonfires crackle with the sizzle of sleuths who chorus in howls and snap their claws as they circle a celebration of life in tow — the flickering and blurred-out lights dance on branches above our heads as we leap into the rabbit holes we dared to explore.

The only one to entice me will always introduce themselves as a novelty … a never-before-seen element of surprise that has come back to say, “Remember all that we never did? Let’s do that again…”

Something wicked this way comes beyond the safety of the fox room — dear gentlemen, a mannequin has outrun you.

xoxo, lizzy

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