My Cardboard Balcony

Nice To Meet You by Belinda Roddie The self-portrait dilates under pressure: Black-rimmed glasses, shaking hands, shoulders buried in a woolen sea. The oils seep into every crack - because you've never exactly felt whole in your life before. I can't repaint you, but I can admire your colors. As they reassemble, they form a striking image: Different, yet the same. Stark, yet fitting. Unexpected, yet the epitome of changing art.

There was something oddly relaxing about sitting in my father's dusty blue easy chair, sifting through folder after folder of papers, listening to the way they crinkled like a two-dimensional stranger's nose. What intrigued me, however, was when I got to the letter. It was addressed to an unnamed editor - for a newspaper? A publishing house - and was written in shaky penmanship. Purple ink, strangely enough.