She pulled at her flaxen hair, strung sharp as thistle dew. The played the harp on her yellowed and graying locks in time to the sound of her sighs. A dreamcatcher torque held the single jewel of a rejected dream. A misunderstood nightmare given cut without clarity, and drawn taut with spiderweb promises. She pinned her braids back with a seashell comb, tied a ribbon tourniquet around her wrist, and played the softest song into the day before yesterday.

10:45 p.m. - 2016-01-25