stars fall over the edge of your cupped hands and land in the centre of my universe (which is dressed up as a lace doily). all day my kitchen is twinkly and cartesian.
She weeps for all that she has wanted to be, for the words that run around inside her all day long but simply cannot fly, for the aeroplane that her paper wants to become.
The birthday girl weeps for her paper aeroplane. And at that very moment, she lifts up her pen. The birthday girl writes.
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