The little circle marbles down the glass streets of my imaginary universe. She is purple and mystical scented and smooth and spoiled. The squares till the fields, picking despair off crops that will be burned by an army of disenfranchised futures. The triangles, red in their harshness and love of good wine, stand on the porches of their crystalline cottages, watching our little circle travel. Until she meets a sphere, and she blooms with possibility.
Miniature Moon 