I feel as if I’m a figurine. I feel like something on strings, posed by loves fragile fingers and possessed by a frantic fluttering in my chest. I am renewed. I am not of rags or of scraps. Pristine… I am something velveteen. The charcoal clouds have finally finished spitting on me concentrating instead on painting a faithful portrait splashed across the canvas of the wine read heavens. You are draped across a vast daffodil cream.