Adrian made me believe in hope; Adrian, who wound me about in circles, the cotton of our clothing flowing in stagnant air, became my savior. Where I could not, would not place false hope in an Idol, I placed hope in Adrian. A miniature god with solemn eyes and a solemn face that cracked up by dimmed lights and moonlights as he read to me during the evenings on top of down feather comforters laid upon the floor of his room. Everything was books, and God, and soul. Everything was Adrian.

My father stands resolute, crisp linen suits, most often of gray, steeped with the smell of clove cigars and alcohol. So infrequent in joy, we spent evenings upon the back porch, delicate origami paper in hand. Together, we created: cranes, lilies, dragonflies, and stars. Strung up on wires, dangling above our heads. Non-transient in the standing air. Together, we created the breeze to watch the whir, and in those moments, we were father and daughter, no longer machine and operator.

And I open my eyes now to see a world that burns, and as I have grown, I have learned that the illusion deprives us of sense. Sense that means that dark skies not only bring the stars but also bring the storms; sense that means that time flows in not only one direction but all directions. As I think, I keep falsified memories alive in hope that one day a better world may exist.

I forever remember those hands on my face, calloused with difficulties and trembling with desire. I remember the infinity that stretched through his eyes, the sandalwood smell in his hair.