There is something to a mirror whose surface turns into feathers everytime I try to see myself, but that might just be the essence of mirrors: a gourmet delicacy eaten two seconds before dinner at the house of  my grandparents, for  such a dessert is quite lovely but it is the moment you smell the chocolate powder and the fresh dough that matters most, with all the ingredients neatly mixed and the cream pouring from the sides.

Reading the angles of elbows and knees is secondary when it is truly the arches of feet that are supporting  me; one bridge emerging from inside the other, laws of space ignored. And there are building plans stored on my lungs and they are made of feeble clouds filled with hot air; must cover my reflection for them not to escape into the skies above.