The first time I saw Honesty the old lady from the first floor brought us down a bunch.
Pale, opalescent disks, like acoustic membranes, they rattled dryly as you put them in a vase, in our subterranean flat.
How clean their lines and branches, like a Zen poem in their aporetic disorder order.
We kept them for years, but gradually they got smashed up after several moves, we went through turmoil too, until one day you threw them out.