Bubbles are perfect spheres of wonder, fragility, and ephemerality. Floating, pushed by a quick breeze, bursting on a moments contact with any unforgiving surface, they are here again and gone the next. A quick blow, and little baby bubbles form. But with a seasoned and wizened long and slow breath, one may be gifted with a monster bubble, full and heavy with promise and grandeur. But what does Ellie care for all these musings of an old lady? She just likes the slippery stickiness of the soapy goodness.
