minutia_r

Things are different in the waking world. Once I tried to make a cake; I took eggs, and a pinch of mustard powder, and three pairs of old socks, mixed it up and set it in the sun. When I saw the appalling mess in the bowl, which refused to become anything else--when I smelled it--I sat down on the step and cried. It’s a petty thing, I know, but life takes you that way sometimes.

This isn’t home.