Going through the closet, I want to look pretty. I want to shine when I go out tomorrow night.
The closet is arranged, ordered in a way: shirts, skirts, pants, sweaters, suits. I toss in bed imagining which shoes, which jewelry to select.
Slipping into another world, I move through the fabrics, feel them against my skin. Bare legs or tights? Sleeveless, deep plunge, keyhole cutout, mini or maxi?
My closet is a secret space: cream and beige, soft textures, gray, sometimes black; private—hiding weaknesses, vulnerabilities, identities from the past. A place where a look is created, a story is crafted, visibility is masked.
I try on necklaces, earrings in my mind, waist-length pearls, show off a lacquered pedicure in peep-toe heels. I clutch the little black dress I will wear until I die.
I see the stars approaching as I contemplate my choices, vacillate in abstraction between the volume and the void and I smile.
I am awake.
And I write myself with purpose in the city of Milan, wearing a wild-patterned dress, high-top sneakers with holes in my stockings, and a blue metallic bag that doesn’t match a thing.