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I'm a fan. Not enough to use it, but I appreciate it. Half of me thinks it's hilariously ugly, and half of me thinks it's gentle and murmuring and romantic, like... turtles in a murmuring brook, like myrtle flowers, like turtledoves. It purrs, it's quiet. A sunbleached lace doily. A too-ornately decorated antique teacup that speaks of a once-fascinated imagination. Miles and miles removed from the ghastly car who just roared down the street disrupting all equilibrium and probably making birds unhappy. Myrtle is pre-industrial and knits on her porch and co-exists with songbirds just fine.

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