This. whimsical. little. tale.
of a girl, and her spirit. and the insides of the lightbulb.
shone from holes poked in the spine, the book read out: “listen!” I know now what that means. I climbed in. It was dark, but mostly joyful. Creatures rolled around insides their shells, some feasting on the others. I am not going to listen to you or you. Or you. Inside the holes in that shone, poked in the spine. I will live. and eat. and breathe. and perhaps, die. but, not alone. like the insides of a lightbulb. never burnt out. the lights gone out is not disconnection. but a withering away. moving, against the grain. moving, slowly away. one step behind the other. I am facing growing old, walking backwards. As to make sure, no single gasp of intended glamour. none missed. none considered null. all will go along, and the lights will grow dim. In the beginning days, too bright to see. and now, still, as if the day I was born.