Charlotte's room is an explosion of scents wriggling out of assorted roses, tulips, and three sunflowers. On her wall, she sticks her favourite pieces of music that make her close her eyes and see swirling patterns and feel nostalgic over memories she hasn't lived. Charlotte worries about working hard and balancing becoming a woman with becoming an adult and about being kind enough and about the dying planet and the dying people. Charlotte worries. When Charlotte worries, she calls her girlfriend and listens to her play the piano through the speaker of her phone and watches the shards of glassy thoughts float from her eyes and accumulate into a shimmering fog on the ceiling. She closes her eyes and whispers diamond thoughts and the music shifts into a thick, syrupy substance that drips down over the windows and forms a puddle on the floor, until Charlotte is below its surface and she can breathe again. (Charlotte drowns in air.) She swims through the melted chocolate like it's outer space, and the distant music creates a comfortable sort of quiet that makes you feel at peace. She breathes and watches the notes lazily trickle down the fabric of the universe and gradually turn into a gushing waterfall like radio static, then back into the ambling promenade of a languorous stream, the occasional accidental creating the light plop of a plump water droplet landing on the surface of the small river formed by the accumulation of notes rushing down from an unidentifiable source.
