Noone ever forgives us for changing. They want us to be constant as the wind and always wear the same colours but we’re not meant to be that way. We’re supposed to be a little different each morning when we wake up and I think it’s our dreams that do it. Last night I was a sailor and woke with sand in my sheets and salt in my hair, and the night before that I was a wood nymph who rose with the dawn chorus and dewed lips. Every two years I change alltogether and become someone else wearing the same eyes. It’s a little uncomfortable, like a snake shedding skins. They never forgive me for changing but I do it with passion because you need to die a little bit now and then to feel alive.

(p.s. aren’t these the prettiest flowers? they seem to worship the sky. could you even choose a more perfect name for them than ‘cosmos’?)

She doesn’t care enough and yet she cares too much, about the wrong things. Fickle fascination, winter hibernation, what is she so afraid of that she must shapeshift like this. Is it so hard to be one thing, just one thing for all of your days. She is scared of moths, she who hides in her cocoon for fear of learning to fly.