the origin of clouds (a novel)#11

           There were many nights when mother crying while father yelled pulled Susan from the static drift of her dreams. She’d lie awake in bed, a cocoon of distractions, tracing the fractured network of light, a starburst into a million crystal pieces zigzagging through the thin, lace curtains. Without ever going to the window, looking out into the colloidal night to peek a glimpse, she knew they were there. The glittering winged fairies sweeping flower dust into soft mounds that would be nothing more than a few wisps of memory floating to the ground the next day.

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