...A tiara, I would wear. With a cotton dress and a pair of pointed wedges. A bunch of white flowers, I would hug dearly. I’d put them in a vase on the kitchen table, in the spot where sunlight draws a slightly uneven rectangle around 9 am, in May. A bridal dress, I’d surely wear. A grey tulle one, in the cringing cold of a desolate market hall, on a Saturday afternoon. I’d have a good friend walk around me and take pictures of me, while I would feel strangely out of place, unimaginably tired and ugly, my hair all scruffy and awful, my hands blue and wrinkled, frozen near to the of bones...
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