And in the mirror is an older girl from yesterday, for it was then that I wrote every fantasy for which i've yearned upon a golden sheaf and I tied it to a kite, black and red and orange, and I watched it sail up and up and up and forever away from here, for what will dreaming do me except milky teardrops and sagging doorframes. I'd like to live a life in peace away from falsities, and it is for that reason which I cringe at the lies and shallow untruths which are spoken around my core, too close, I push away. If I could fly I would go to the seas with whitecaps of pearl and ruby fishes jumping across my lazy, sundried belly, impregnated with ideals, puffy with a folly that gives the only true happiness. But if is but a word and I am but a girl and maybe with my grandmothers looking down upon me I will be that emerald eyed fox running for the moon.