She closed her eyes and imagined what wonders awaited her there. Fabric rolling chairs that smelled of stale coffee.
Ink stains.
Metal filing cabinets.
Burnt plywood landscapes.
Found object figurines.
Credenzas.
The absurdity of the moment made her giddy. A golden flower bloomed in her core and filled her with a warm, glowing light.
A light that flickered. Like street lamps with commitment issues.
With eyes wide, she ignored the signs of broken pipes and air that smelled of forgotten words captured on mildewed pages moist with time.
One spore was all it took. She stepped forward.
Unaware that adaptation had begun.
Yolanda London Dwyer 