It was on the isle of Sharlayan that a small squat hovel sat, with a big round window, showing a little girl in a dusty apron sweeping inside. Her Maman hadn’t the money to buy her more than secondhand uniforms and thus she had to trade patchwork floral dresses for very serious and stately looking clothes. Of course Lafeyette didn’t feel serious nor did she feel stately. Her vest had mismatched buttons and her sleeves slid past her wrists. When she wore her coat it swallowed her like some large and terrible beast.
She had been told that her future was coming for her but she’d nary a clue when. Perhaps if she’d known today would be the day she’d have worn nicer shoes or braided her unruly curls. But she’d just recently stepped into being diurnal and her eyes hurt and her head felt stuffed with cotton. She didn’t think this sun would be the sun and thus she didn’t think to look out her big round window to see a slow approaching carriage. Yet whether she saw it or not the carriage did come.
The future announced his presence with a sharp one, two, three knocks against the hovel’s little wooden door.
Mental illness is weird BC you don’t cry at death but your local shop not having organic yellow bell peppers throws you into a panicked state where nothing will ever be okay again and the world is burning.
I tried to tell Quincy that we were standing in front of natural treasure and that we should appreciate it. He continued to pose with this vaguely indifferent expression, effectively rendering all of my photos useless.