I took my little finger that night and sliced off a slice of that great pearly tea cake. Even as I cut, I scattered clouds of effervescently irridescent powder through the rich blue-black coffee that swirled around my toes. I stuck out my tongue to taste: oops a mosquito. I coughed and sputtered and tried again. And the taste was bittersweet, like icing at midnight, like a cup of warm Christmas cocoa. I threw in some more sugar and made a wish, stirred with a sleepy blink of my eyelashes.
Someone must have carried me inside, for when I awoke, the dew had fallen on the other side of my window
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