On the end of my street sits a large clay pot full of hydrangeas (For the life of me, I cannot pronounce the word hydrangeas.) I have been admiring it for weeks, and it just dawned on me that it is fake. I would have never guessed it in a million years (okay, maybe not a million, but the word a "million" describe exaggerated thought beautifully.)
Those hydrangeas had me fooled.
Imagine my red cheeks, when the neighbor leaned out of her second, floor window, like the sun and said,
"They are not real, but they are beautiful aren't they?"
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