I was in winterthur yesterday,

she told me, her long, braided hair twisting seamlessly over a porcupine-colored clock, the doorposts all spinning as she spoke. Her voice was like a spool of thread, that nervous, but it kept on turning and like rubber before glue wheels her eyes kept moving. Yesterday wasn't real and the frame of the beast wasn't anything among, or not among, her comprehensive thought, indeed it was a dialogue in itself, one of unknown and unfortunate nature, one that was scrawled by fifteen year old's in bathroom stalls and whispered by children in blanket forts, and carved into jack-o-lanterns by Hare Krishna's. She wasn't a Sophie but she didn't try to be a Sophie, and all of the bristles ignored her pleading.