My mom brought me this note that I wrote when I was little:
I love you. The twinkly stars shine in the morning. The top, I bite it. It got oval. Be careful, ink everywhere. To the whales that twinkle and dinkle. The boxes that float around in the sky and flies that whisper around the kisper. The whispering sounds, the blocks that lock the door keychain. The grass that grows that never have slobs. Never have cloggy.
I think something was wrong with me.