I have ever loved flowers. Behind my house there is a little garden in which I grow roses and petunias, carnations and tulips, daisies and violets. I have only one orchid, a rare and precious variety of orchid, which blooms once a year.
I water flowers every day, I cut the withered branches and leaves, I manure the ground at the beginning of every season. I use the best ground I can find for my flowers: they have to grow luxuriant, sweet-scented, with bright colours. In one word: perfect.
I am not sure to love them now. I like flowers, of course. But my present situation is a bit strange: I am imprisoned in the powerful spires of a giant dionaea, which is crushing me slowly. I think I will be its morning breakfast.
I have ever liked flowers. And now I know that flowers like me too.