Fictional but humdrum, the princess seeks to jump out of narcolepsy. She ossifies the world she sees on the window of her drawer, then puts it to rest, shaped into the shape of a lizard, on her bookshelf. Another perspective, mundane in its fiction for the invokes fiction every hour, another lizard.
Such phantasmagorias take place under the eyes of owls, the seven white owls guarding the room, with threatening, philippic beaks. Under such dictatorship she would normally fear giving birth to the lizards, as the owls watch their pale, greenish bodies curling into this air from her small palms.
But the wardrobe would grow and overflow, releasing those maliciously creative nemesis of what she couldn’t see on the real window of her room. She needed to lock them in fetid lizards, lugubrious, with intolerant orange eyes spinning in orbits.
Her knuckles whitened every time another lizard came to existence, as if holding the heaviest gun with both her hands and clenching to hold her body straight. Soon there will be too many of them in her room.
The owls would refuse to eat them, so they would refuge in the back of the princess’ eyes, in her wrists and joints. And continue to paradoxically grow out of fear and hunger.