chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things


She opens her eyes before dawn. In her second-floor room, the window is open and filled with stars, Orion floating on his side above the horizon, the faintest promise of light defining the morning yet to come. She drifts back into sleep and wakens to daylight.

In the window frame, a single tendril of vine has broken free of the wall to reach for the light. It looks like a very slender asparagus — furled and green, with a few undeveloped leaves pegged along its length in no apparent pattern. It bears no flowers and yet it is almost continually visited by bees. A piece of pure white down is snagged on the slightly serrated sword tip of a tiny leaf.

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