sprat

Through her bedroom window, Sophia stared across the prairie at the old, rust streaked water tower. The pouring rain flowing over the pane glass gave it the appearance of perpetual melting. She wondered how she might paint it. The thought quickly faded, becoming hazy, then null, like a polaroid in reverse development. She sighed, looked down into her nearly empty cream colored coffee cup, and saw the small remainder pooling and drying ring-like around the edges at the bottom. She went back to drawing cute little chimeric creatures on a napkin. She had, over a long period of time, acquiesced to a bearing of herself that required little to no