March wears a crystaline white skull cap against the clamourus swill barreling through the drafty attic nook. Her polished china doll face with a chipped tooth smile. Gauzey white bandages looped protective around the sticky red interior. The glassy and slender moon, snug against her window ledge, carefully ecking out salty sands to cauterize the wound. Solitude — a thickly spread membrane casting nets in every direction to catch the stray thoughts that escape in puffs of white smoke, an attempt to choke out the dull throbbing pain. Inescapable. Softly padding on tip toe her loose fitting nightgown trails along the steps she has climbed before. Sighs creak, dreams snap, light fades, attention focuses. A single red reminder. Fractured lace collar bones jutting into her breath chamber. Cavernous exhalation. Labour sweetly rendered in anticipation of blooming indigos and violets just beneath the surface– tension of her transcendence. Beautiful scars shining the way to the holy place.