I fold down the sheet, flatly formed against the quilt so that each dent of stitch stretches into a barely visible terrain. It forms a pleasant piece of smooth, cold art. Slowly I stroke my hand across like a wind on plastered white sand beach, lifting my flickering fingers just above the peeking blue quilt edge. The gust I create is lighter than one that shakes water into waves, so my weak current does not make it's own throughout this small world.
After all.
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