That sleep mold is growing over me, and it's not even 9am. That tired fuzz from anxious sleep is pouring into every crevice of my fatigued body. The fashion show looms off in the distance like a foreign ship breaking through fog, its helm of anticipation creased with uncertainty. It seems like a dream, the something-out of nothing fashion show that Erin and I have finagled. And a dream it shall remain, as I'm so tired this day will surely continue its surreallism through the culmination of the event.
