There is a starfish in her girl-skin spread across the four corners of the bed, soft-bellied, limned by the dying afternoon. The A/C whirrs lowly in the backdrop. The starfish-girl-creature thinks of writing, of worlds beyond reality, of becoming a thousand different faces, a dream in which there is no limit. She closes her eyes and looks inwards, realizing that these fickle, nearly nonsensical dreams should not be kept secret, but scattered across all of time and space to rouse madness in both strange creatures and even stranger humans.