I shed my skin every seven years. I never realise it till long after the act of shedding has taken place.

Mother says I’m made of mud, eyes, and a little bit of the past. When she says this, she glances away as though she’s ashamed of what she did.

Mind the stones there. A centaur took out part of my stone wall in a hissy fit. Centaurs, what can you do, hmm?

The thing about regret was that it curdled. It couldn’t stand up to the harsh salts of traditional methods of preservation.

Chantilly, bobbin, guipure, knotted, knitted, on and on. Where is the floor? The door?