Something about my hair. They say if i don't take better care of it, it'll be nothing but a fuzzy dull mass. I argue: it's the only beautiful thing i have, shouldn't, couldn't it be effortless? But they're gone.

I remember lying in the sun and looking up at it through my hair. The light was refracted into rainbows that faded to gold at their edges. This is true.

Somebody brushes past me in a dense crowd, muttering something about seeming and being. What?, i say, and try to catch up, but they're out of reach, and i wake up with a headache.