Heart-Broken Pan-Handling Hand Puppets

She’s thinking about how She always loved talking about Herself in the third person, and She’s listening to Her most favourite ever song.

The song is called “Hyper-Ballad”. It’s sung by the gloriously diminutive, gorgeously derirative Icelandic Ice elf Bjork. In the song, little Miss Bjork wakes up early, every morning, and walks toward a cliff.

She’s been thinking about cliffs too.

In the song, little miss Bjork throws things off. Car parts, bottles, and cutlery, whatever she finds laying around.

Bjork never throws people. There are never giant octopus at the bottom. Little miss Bjork throws mundane things. The things she throws are as mundane and ordinary as the streets around Her, the streets that never changed while She was away, that haven’t changed now, though She has.

Throwing things, sings Bjork, has become a habit. A way to start the day off. She remembers Her habit too, a way to end the day. She’s smiling. Sometimes Her habit went on to the early morning, when no-one was awake, no-one in all the World it seemed, except the people She couldn’t really see or touch.

She listens to the chorus. She’s always understood the chorus, always wanted it. Maybe She has it, She hopes so.

She listens to the words of the song, adoring the cadence of the singers voice. She gets swept up as always, twirled around spinning through the air, being touched in ways She’s never been able to put into words. She imagines little miss Bjork tiptoeing back from the cold, quiet cliff, back to the warmth and love of her bed. For a long time She never had that. When She didn’t have it, She had people she couldn’t see or touch, but they lifted her like the song.

She doesn’t really have those people now, not really, but they’ll never leave Her because She’ll never forget. She’s an atheist but She knows that there’s a second life and She might go back there one day, some day. But first of all She knows She has to jump off that cliff, take that chance.

She never wants the song to end. The song ends, and She puts the song away. She has tears in her eyes, but She’s happy. Soon she’ll tiptoe back off to bed and be warm again. She thinks She’s very silly but She doesn’t really care. She pictures big fluffy clouds bursting full of happiness, imagines Herself blowing them across the skies. She watches them explode over the people She couldn’t see or touch, showering them with joy. She knows she’s very silly but She doesn’t give a fuck.

She reads Her message and giggles again. It touched Her like the song. And She really means it when She says:

You’ll always have a place in my heart. Behind my shoes.