Tiger Mountain Peasant song

I'm turning myself into a demon. With each passing day, the baby buds on my forehead start to look more and more like horns and less and less like the ingrained pimples i keep selling them as to anyone who will listen. Why is it that the thing I want people to notice least is the first thing I mention?

basic folds and bases

There were creases in the folds of her work that would not bend the way they were intended to. Mountain folds collapsed into deep valley folds that sagged under the weight of neglected memories that were meant to be hidden between the flaps of paper crafted to expand and contract with her breath. Inhaling was a task too difficult for her paper-thin lungs to carry out.

Where the carbon in her cells should have met with oxygen in the air and released the meanness accumulated by the cycles of running through her veins, there was only the stagnancy of him. Written into the folds of her skin, the ink from his stories kept her firmly compact, unable to spread the pleat folds of her self to the open air and let it breath through her pores. Memories were the deep-seated anchor that kept her parked at port.