daddy’s little angel was a mechanical beast. her hair was like silver rain. when she drank from the little vial, stuff her perception switched. colors changed, traumatologist inverted. black skies became white.
they were cubist treasures; stained glass pasts remembered in their own ways. she thought she could find the future if she only kept digging. there was a blue box in the dirt, tiny like a chinese lantern.
her eyes were playing winamps visualizations again. wires came from her neck and into her ears, playing music no one else could hear.