Miniature seizures all throughout the day and landscapes of black and white. I am tired again as the sun waltzes over my head making a bow. The little things: the tulips at the store like porcelain, sky strained of all fogged impurities, old pictures of smiling dogs that were my Huskies, proud and piercing, are the apparitions I breathe deep. I don't want to be called 'delicate,' 'fragile'. I am not pregnant nor china. I will see the sun justly in it's yellow and will adore it...but for now I wait for the small glories to bloom in the morning; I am colorblind, so I will wait for the tulips and leave this static for the weak.