my favorite writer sips tea at 3 am every morning. the boxes of tea in her pantry outnumber the songs on her iPod (she’s a music minor with a focus in opera). she write on white walls in indigo paint, outlines her journal entries with turquoise pen, her nails are a sort of purple collected from a sunrise over long island. she’s not always happy, but sometimes, she’s an april dream. will you believe me if i told you she was born beneath a sycamore tree? she spins halos of song lyrics around her waist; she is saturn—we worship her, the gracious one.