That was the future. About July. Silk Road. Eight feet high with blooms larger, softer and more beautiful than my hand. Its heart was bored out by a tiny snail.
That was Seafarer. Beautiful apricot. Two down, two to go.
There is the enemy.
If you are walking along Henry Street of an evening and find yourself hit by something soft and small in a shell, it's one of my snails.
I do look down to make sure there are no passersby, but sometimes my wrath overcomes me, and I throw before I think. They are destined for the patch of weeds in front of the next door brownstone.
I could yell, Snaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaail!
So it goes. Day in. Day out.