She liked the edges of things. Yellow borders that mark caution, fire escapes and brick walls.
She was drawn to splinters, scraps, bits and pieces of things. There is something about clutching only a shard of something that feels correct. The broken moon, bent flowers, singed bread toast. Damaged books with crumpled edges.
Most things are too big for us to grasp anyway. Most things lie empty, clattering noisily in the dark — waiting patiently to be released, to be collected. To be gathered up, to belong inside a bundle.
She preferred things that were left alone, too shiny to be discarded, but forgotten nonetheless.