"Thus is more than you can aim unto," she purrs and draws out with a kittenish claw chewing (typical tweenager); she writes with her underformed form, *make a million of me* which embalms her dreams & books out of which she customised herself. Metaphor. (She thinks. Thoughts like these are safest unheard). She's a postmodern excerpt, a learning curve pleased to hear so but what makes me sad is her blissless ignorance of pubescent leaks shallow wells of sebum, strained sprained skin and the typical sick dream of being Thin (out of all of which: adulthood). I reply to assuage, my true tired self, my coarsely-honed whole-meal *make a wanton of me* (I embalm the tired dreams & books ready-made for her).