"This wool is so gorgeous; it comes form Wales."
"You so silly, whales don't have wool."
I would imagine the wool as the finest of pillows for any fairy princess, soft and with the scent of wild roses.
The balls of wool were a rainbow before its colours shone full bright, softly glowing as if promising to grow all the bolder.
The wool jiggled over the arm of the chair as if it were the world's most tame snake caught in a fit of giggles.
The clack of the knitting needles had a pleasant mesmerising sensation on my brain, as if the sound was massaging it ever so gently. I'd reach out my child-sized hand to touch the wool, sensing its softness, taking in its pastel hue with my peak-happiness brain.
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