The blue balloon chases the pigtailed girl down the lane. Oldest trope on the books but it happens. I myself have been hunted by glitter and butchered by confetti. In my eyes, coldness where light used to be. Distant mountains observe cooly, deciding who to collapse on and when. My name means party in a furry alien language of finery. But my hair, snaking behind me in the wind, is treasonous.
Miniature Moon 