“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.” – Emily Dickinson

 
There is a girl who cannot sing. Her skin is made of porcelain, yet her bones can’t be broken. Her eyes contain the sea, a grave of dreams – blue and green and grey. Sometimes violet. Like a storm or a late-autumn afternoon.
 
A chronic insomniac, she stares at the sky every night and whispers to the wind.
“Sometimes”, she says “I wish I were the sea. Light falls in it like soft, white feathers: a beautiful, melancholic veil, gossamer and brittle, like memories of happier times.”