It all starts in fall. It all starts with my hands. The skin on my knuckles dries and cracks like that instant chocolate shell stuff you put on ice cream. My paralyzed fingertips steal the color of the congested skies. A fire is started in my stomach, constantly needing to be re-kindled with cake, and my lips turn to dust whenever my the castanets in my mouth start to play.
My bed turns into a millefeuille (along with the rest of my wardrobe), and I don't cut my hair because I value my neck and my ears. The Earth sighs, blowing knots in my hair, spitting snow in my eyelashes and freezing my lungs. The cold turns me livid. And pensive, I guess.
Because what else is there to do when you're robbed of sleep?
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