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You relax, you shake. A white wash of light changes the m scene for you. You see yourself running m across the golden apple sunrise on a grassy hill. Carla is collecting bunches of pink flowers and tossing them to you in fluttering bunches. She is your mother. You are the people of the grassy hill and the pink flowers. You run m and play in fluffy white spring. Your dress is glistening cotton. You run in circles as Carla showers you with frosty pink petals. It’s as if the whipped cream on a birthday cake were twirling, with pink sugar raining on top. You see people sitting on the grass clapping, and cheering, laughing and gaping. They wear aprons and brown dresses, brown trousers. Nothing else needs to be. There is dancing for everyone. You entered your apartment like a beautiful glass house dripping with thick opaque curtains. Your sister wouldn’t understand what you’ve seen. If you lift the curtains, she will see the gold liquid inside your glass house and she will shatter you. Nov. 3 You’ve been in your room all morning, working on your research.
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