somewhere in the city of brooklyn, on another sleepless night, a girl sits in her orange swivel chair: collecting dreams, moments, snippets of time, essence of youth eternal. capturing that little crackle in his voice, the twinkle in her eye, how soft your palm when you lay it on her cheek just so. all the colors in the sky that night when the lightning struck, the taste of raindrops on her tongue. she sits there bottling them all up in miniature mason jars, stringing them together with delicate ribbons, and tucks them up her sleeve, where her heart beats so fiercely as if there's no tomorrow.