Like a book, It's what's inside that counts.
|There was once a pretty little house on a small road quaintly named "Olde Maine Way". She had a perfectly square lot, driveway of concrete included, surrounded by a white picket fence that was painted once a year along with her white trim. The grass in her yards, both front and back, was carefully trimmed and reseeded with soft grass seeds.
The gardens were lovely too, well defined by embedded pots to keep the perennials from spreading.Small bushes planted under her windows flowered once or twice a year, but otherwise remained a slight darker green than her lawns. A shaded swing could be found at the end of the cobblestone path that led to the backyard garden. Another cobblestone embedded concrete path curved away from the driveway through a garden arch to the front door, also pale gray to match the walkway, as if suggesting that the path continued indoors. But it didn't; that door remained locked most of its duration, only opening to its mysterious owner who was more often out than in.
The actual color of the house changed from year to year, going from blue to pink to various shades of yellow. The quality of stucco paint spoke volumes of money, which led quite a number of disappointed salesmen to leave fliers hanging from her doorknob.
But if one were to pry and peer through the slits of the blinds of this perfectly manicured thing, they would find only an old, tattered couch in the living room. By the bedroom window, only broken picture frames and a few sheets of used paper, and doors hanging askew from empty cabinets in the kitchen.