(no subject)

The program's star had a head. I had a head. Four limbs, like mine. A voice, like me. A job. A mother. A birthday. A bed. A religion. A year she preferred to forget. A hesitation before accepting what had just happened as entirely real. A swath behind her of which she was unaware, a space that might as well have been pitch black till the spotlight of her vision turned, moving it elsewhere. A list of things hoped for that was lived by but never written out. A sense of obligation to strangers not insignificant but going only so far. An inaccurate mental map of South America never called for so never exposed. A measurable path to a certain death. A nowhere for picturing numbers, all slightly if unstably tinted. A running conversation with a friend she'd never met. Doubts about how she appeared that changed her appearance. A libido like a warm ghost that possessed her too slowly to seem separate from her own will. A unique method of tugging at or spinning against the leash of gravity. A chorus of fingers miming their reactions to her more unsettling experiences. A direction she expected love to come from. A set of habitual motions used to flood out sudden pain with loud muscle sensations. An upside down tree of air with nostrils and throat as its roots. Primary sex characteristics somewhat wobblier than neighboring tissues. A double halo of resonance rippling out from throat and chest when singing. A part of the foot hardest to get a sock past. A fear she couldn't admit was one but that others could hardly miss. A bank account balance below which she'd never feel quite at ease. A different way with strangers than the known. An amount of uphill walking she'd tolerate before changing plans. A temperature where she felt most herself. Without all of these I would have withheld full identification. With them I can never abide her being hurt. If the writers should kill her I'd never forgive them. I can hardly bear even her minor setbacks. I just want her to wander around and look at things. The others, the dolls, can live faster, more violent lives, lives fitted to hours, arcs, scenes. They can crack or fall to pieces all they like. With all she's holding she cannot even be jarred without terrible loss. I'm jarred myself quite often, of course, and suppose I must be holding as much or more. This is why I never watch me. The few times I tried I looked away almost at once.