The songwriter sat for three hours at her humming keyboard, the electrics of her brain spastic and frayed. Her songs became tired of waiting for her fingers, so they walked on weary legs to the doorstep of Mary, The Seamstress. They begged to be made as dresses, which everyone knows is a more useful form of existence than music.
Next.
The songwriter and her songs finally negotiated the terms; she would write more quickly if they promised to stop threatening to become dresses. It was a disappointing compromise for the songs, who dreamed of being twirled in the wind and curtseying to royalty, but they could not deny that it was in their nature to sing.
Next.
At this point, the songwriter abandoned her cotton songs for ones of glitter. Though the glitter songs were starved for attention, they quickly noticed they were ill-fitted for her fingers and tongue. The songwriter noticed this problem too. No matter how hard she tried to change her shape, the sparkles remained limp and defeated on the slope of her glossy lips. The glitter and sequins begged for the end of their humiliation, fantasizing about being cut into wreaths and holly for Christmas ornaments. The songwriter put them away, promising to never rouse them again. She slipped on a familiar cotton song and looked at herself, bored, in the mirror.
