Skirting the issue, sifting through tissues, tamping the coffee grounds before making cappucino.
Sucking the life out of the balloon, mangling the mud before the monsoon.
Crimping the hair before the big dance, stamping the letter and taking the chance.
Her odd choice of clothes echo and fold, she is wearing the mask on her head.
Why not put it on her face? Instead she lifted the sheath of papers, stuck between the pages of the books she was constantly rubbing the ink talking about how it smelled. I wonder if in her mind is a series of bells, hanging on strings, and she never knows which one to pull.