The blackness of sleep had a way of erasing last night’s feelings like no classroom pencil she had ever known. While she gathered her things, pulled her socks on underneath her jeans, slipped her bra into her purse, her blouse over her head, she remembered what the old man playing his one-string whiner in Chinatown had said: that she was proceeding through life like a cat without whiskers. Then she left.

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  • Hanna Chapman

    Sometimes you have to pluck out old whiskers in order to grown new ones. It is a cycle. You lose your balance and free fall for a bit til your other senses compensate, you’ve grown a fresh new face-full, and homeostasis is replaced, sharper, stronger, and dusting off the ashes. Nine lives down you’re no longer a cat, you’re a phoenix.