Can it be possible with all the changes in my life and the world outside my window that Winter Light is still there, kindly receiving my desperate letters in the middle of the day or the middle of the night? When I was a child and had the chicken pox my mother hid all the mirrors from me. When she left the room I rose painfully on the soles of my inflamed feet on the couch and peered into the mirror above me, and screamed. "I will never be beautiful again," I said hysterically, which is some kind of emblem of my conscious being, the solipsistic fairy tale where I am the maiden and wicked queen together. In what was kind of an emotional thing I decided to change my look. Last September after the BJD convention I got a hime cut, then got my job in October. I fought with my hairdresser over the cut and enjoyed the results, even though I didn't have the time to style it with my new job, and it looked dreadful pulled back. There was no way I could drag my princess hair in solv...