For her there were only two times: dawn and dusk.

At dusk she would take her insomnia to the old post office. She was dead tired of striving and crisis! She wanted to live in the land of Blake-light and emptiness, of PO boxes stuffed with gold doubloons, of civic hallways in which only her footfalls echoed back.

For her, the illogic and moral relativism of fairy tales had long felt true to life. The bony witch is named Esmerelda. You will find a cat that will try and scratch your eyes out–you must give it some ham. You will find hounds that will try and eat your feet–you must feed them some rolls. Having her expectations upended is what kept her moving.

Forward, backward, under, over. She had been waiting her whole life for something good to happen from which there would be no turning back.

“The creative struggle, my heart to your cause,” his text message read.

Hands were both alien and sexy. She worried she could not focus on more than one thing. She could either sleep or await his letter.

The deep lines in her face were from looking away. Suddenly, they were getting shorter. When his letter arrived it wasn’t a letter at all but a wax cylinder. There were two short lyrics penned on the plain brown wrapper: “They blew on the wax while I was singing. They blew on it and my voice stayed.”

Photography by Bethany Walter

hand of Fatima necklace: Morocco; batik skirt: vintage 70s, Jakarta; cashmere tanktop: charity shop, London; ballet flats: J. Crew; gold ring: who knows