4 Yume Igarashi Week of December 14-18 by Yume Igarashi: Pick any number, and give it a unique identity. What kind of personality does that number have for you? Is it enigmatic, shy, intelligent, nonchalant, or downright breathtaking? Does it have a pointy nose, or perhaps a habit of furrowing their brows when choosing the type of donut they’re going to eat for breakfast? Expand on this character as much as you’d like, and you can discuss them to be living in our world of humans, or amongst a completely new dimension where numbers rule society.
It wore a petticoat of blue gray of generous muslin, standing impressively still near the end of a block, but not quite taking the last step to reach this end. The shoulders were accentuated with the coat’s tight edges, its slim waist shy in an embrace of a luscious belt the color of New York City’s cement after a summer’s morning rain. Today was one of those days that felt like a broken arrow, frail at the corners. The humidity hung to the cold sigh of the city as it took a deep breath, and the ends of its coat fluttered in mockery of the way the long curtains in its old room used to dance. It had been a full arrow back then, a time when a sigh that it let out never sounded like a sigh, only a singular note of a whimsical murmur. Now, even a polite laugh sounded tired to its ears. Its sideways glance was characteristically sharp and slanted as a brave snowflake pirouetted and gently sat at the plane of its left shoulder. Something that improved was the straightness of its back. Curves are alluring, with no edges, no decisive angle or direction, that they boast. But straight lines are beautiful in their own right. There is an admirable stubbornness to them, a certain aura of infectious confidence that makes a fleck of snow courageous enough to softly step on a sea of gray, smile with a blink of refracted light, and melt into its ground. Losing its body of white is a brave thing to do, to lose an entity to call its own. It’s more than what I could ever do, anyway, it thought. Gray was said to be synonymous to dull, but it was far from that. When the black and the white intertwine with great eloquence, gray is their child. Perhaps a few gracious drops of vibrant gray was the medicine that it needed. The gray of the sidewalk, of its coat, and of its sky echoed in its steps, and with a new whisper of swiftness, it turned the corner of its block.
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