Sometimes I wish purple daffodils existed. It seems like the only way I can remind myself things are real is to experience something I know can't possibly be real. I think maybe that is the appeal of reading: to get lost in my own little world. Not that it takes a book. I tend to get lost in my own little world regardless. In a world where purple daffodils exist.
Or maybe a world where I didn't have to wait so long to see one of my best friends.