Miss Dust Has a Nervous Breakdown
She crouches down, builds arms for her doll.
The curtains of her house are ash, her hair is already white, although she’s only 27. * The night is not just something she walks through anymore, it gets into her mouth. And when she opens the door, ducks into her doll place, & flicks the switch, sticks of sugar scream sirens at her. The blanket is opening its wings on the carpet, “Lie down, Miss Dust,” says the carpet.
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