La Ritournelle.

Mr. Tillier can give me goosebumps. Let them pop out of my skin and crawl down my back, down my spine, across my waist and back up to my arms. Let them dance around and spin in flawless circles. Jump in the air of the environment surrounding my arms, the safe particles of my existence. Music is like magic, it's like love. It can make you feel things you have never felt before, forget things you do not want to remember anymore, make you shout with anger till your throat goes sore. I would like to spin around in circles like my goosebumps do. Be a bumpy, miniscular particle living the mere existence of something unnoticed, ignored yet omni-present. I want to know how it feels like not to feel, remember, want things I would rather not. Want. To. I look into the balling of my desklight, I can see the reflection of a face I call mine. Lips I call mine, yet partially from a lipstick who's name I cannot remember, with the single digits 4 7 1. My eyes are black, yet not really, because they are half brown, half greenish. My hair is not my own, it is that of the store I bought the hair paint in. I am not myself, although actually I really am. Because without the part that's beneath my skin, all these fake realities would be non-existent. Just like the imaginary thought that goosebumps can dance.