Why cotton?
Because that’s what it feels like. . .

And from the thousands of words that define us, not a single word has just one paternity. . .

Maybe Keano’s electroceutical fed the neural concerto of Aanya’s break-up into larger networks of perspective. She couldn’t decide which was better: fixation or detachment?

Shifu looks at the stream behind her compound, contaminated from the mines, thin and weak, and still thinks she can drink from it. She says freedom is flight. She says water is life. . .