Special things follow you special places.  To all your places, they come.  To rainbow days and rain-pour days and days the vast blue oppresses you with its greatness.  Special things tiptoe after you like children, fingers on lips, peering around your hips, hoping to surprise you with their quietness.  

A special thing sleeps by her bed, wings folded, tucked away for nighttime--exhausted from the specialness of his new self.  The joyous flutterings are calm now, heartbeats slow.  When she turns around tomorrow--MEOW WHACK BAM--another special thing will make for her a special place.

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