B

Wrapped in mahogany fleece, her hands protrude out to hold one of the many books that often accompany her to bed. They relax her. The books. They make her dream of her own ambitions, to be. She reads and stops to dance a while with the dreams created in her mind. She traces the crown molding around the ceiling, her lips curl from delight. Then suddenly, she grabs a pen and small journal from the indiscriminate array of items that share her bed, and scribbles something that only she can understand. With the pen pressed against her lips, she thinks, “I hope I don’t die like this.” And then as quickly as her consciousness was raised, she trades journal for book and resumes reading...

B