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I wanted to write a story about a warm girl.
No art was made. But my bones did chatter. They wrote stories about me, which they wouldn't share. I begged them by adding layers of clothing scraps (the ones I store for collages and paintings). I had a strip of deep neon purple on my shins, a fall turtleneck upon my chest...but they wouldn't share! Those chattering skeleton freaks hiding in my skin. I'm going to meet them one day. Join the conversation. Tell them I didn't choose the pod. Tell them how we'll be landing soon on desert grounds where everyone talks in bone.
Yesterday, you wouldn't believe it...I wore tights below overall shorts and a neon purple shirt with a light gray cardigan and a leaf clip in my hair.
I walked to a warehouse, one I frequent. It's not obscure, just a bunch of artists separated by pods working on pod stuff in pod places. Turns out these pods are space ships. I say this because they're cold.
I checked into my pod: room 41. locked the door. realized I had nowhere to sit. exited. took some chairs from the pod landing station (open room) and brought them into my ship where I made myself a bed.
I shut my eyes and awaited take off.
No reading was done.