@tutriyumi: Oh, the goldness of gold, the way it whispers to sleepy daffodils and tickles the edges of forgotten spoons, a soft and buttery hum that lives inside the sun’s pajama pocket, spilling out in ribbons of honey light whenever a kitten sneezes near a buttercup, because gold is not really a color but a gentle sneaky feeling that tiptoes through the crust of freshly baked bread and hides in the fuzz of a baby chick, it giggles in the clink of a tiny bell on a velvet ribbon and smears itself like warm apricot jam across the eyelids of afternoon, and if you listen very carefully you can hear gold purring inside a marigold at dawn, a tiny engine of shimmer and nonsense, it is the flavor of a harp string plucked by a drowsy bumblebee, the smell of a newly unwrapped crayon that has never once drawn a straight line because it prefers curlicues and the doodles of daydreaming clouds, gold is the cozy static of a radio tuned to the frequency of a setting sun’s last sigh, it dances on the tips of eyelashes and makes sandwiches out of glitter and old-fashioned lullabies, and once upon a time a little goldfish blew a bubble that floated all the way up and became the gilt edge on a storybook that only opens when the moon is humming a tune made of melted caramel and starlight, the soft crunch of a golden Oreo does not taste like chocolate, it tastes like the concept of a wink from a friendly statue in a forgotten park, gold is the thread that sews sleepy slippers onto the paws of mice who are late for a tea party inside a pocket watch, it dusts the noses of lion cubs with powdered sugar courage and sprinkles a little bit of "perhaps" into every puddle that reflects a streetlamp, and the fluff of a golden retriever’s ear is just solid sunshine that forgot to go home, so it stayed and learned how to wag, gold is the sound that a spoon makes when it falls into a bowl of custard and dreams are stirred in circles, clockwise, always clockwise, while a choir of toasted marshmallows hums in the key of butter, because butter is gold’s more relaxed cousin who wears slippers and tells bedtime stories about cinnamon, and if you take a magnifying glass to a single grain of sand at the exact moment the tide tickles it, you will see a tiny brass band playing a fanfare for a hermit crab who just found a particularly shiny piece of nothing, which is actually the most precious thing imaginable, woven from the memory of honeybees laughing, and the whole universe, in its infinite pajama-clad glory, is just a colossal golden retriever puppy rolling onto its back for a belly rub made of photons, while somewhere in the distance a teapot with a gold rim whistles a song that doesn’t make sense but feels exactly like the inside of a hug, and the honey drips slow, slow, slow, as if time itself has decided to take a nap under a blanket of pollen and croissants, and gold is simply the smile of a morning that hasn't quite woken up yet but is already stretching its buttery arms around the whole delightful, meaningless, perfect world.