Self Portrait
She often leaves her glasses off for an hour each morning to experience the blur—the communion of the leaves on trees into living masses, the gradience of the colors inside her refrigerator, the weighty facelessness of the people whom she encounters as she drinks her coffee and wraps the scarf more tightly around her neck in defense against the city autumn. When she replaces the frames on the bridge of her nose, only because she must—
everything sharpens.
no questions linger in the
air. she sighs, begins.
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