I roll my bottle cap in my hand and feel every ridge, every oddly placed spike, and all the smooth parts in between. My head feels heavier than usual, though only in certain areas, turning me into a bobble head at awkward moments of human interaction. "Would you like something to drink?" I shake my head but it turns into an odd roll. I cringe, apologize, and turn my eyes toward the window.
From above everything looks so delicate; a veritable bouquet of textures and shapes, solid in their placement (a permanence I don't feel when I'm among them). I imagine them to be actually tiny, or maybe myself to be fantastically large, so I would be able reach out and let my fingers brush along the tips of the trees and the sides of buildings grip and slip along the lines of my fingerprints.
The clouds are something like bubbles in a hot bath the way they move, the way they're never quite satisfied to stay the way I mold them. They're softer though. More delicate. Like wisps of bunny fur, stripped of their ability to turn me frantic with removing the feeling of breathlessness from my nose.
I wonder where I'd rest my head if I were so fantastically large and decide Saturn sounds comfortable. So Saturn, tonight's all yours.