Waking slow, sauntering through the corridors of my mind in a silky, bone-colored robe and a crown of tousled gold, combing the delicate cobwebs away. I am an elegant old maid with a sweeping collarbone, the stuff of a Dickens’ novel. My eyes are polished looking glasses in which you can see yourself quite clearly, my limbs as pale as the day. I’m waiting for a lick of honey light, for a reason to leave the house. And while I wait, I will float through these halls in my bone-colored robe, pressing memory into marble, ether into flesh.
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