Death is the mother of beauty

By which she means, she can see with her eyes, can sense with her skin,  touch-smell-sight, but she can’t reach out with invisible feeling: Gone are the shapes of the gentle currents around her, the hum of presences in the building, the reverberations of someone walking past in the hallway, the firework echo of the magic spells going on two floors above her. Like a fish with no feelers and a cat with no whiskers, Daisy is still, at her core, herself -- when she licks her palms and brings her hands together her breath still distills into liquid into earth into a little blue flame. And yet her world squeezes in a little closer, only the worn comforter under her legs and the smell of the night coming in through the window, dull and flat and stuffy green and damp, like a woolly, itchy sweater. 

She wonders if this is what seasickness feels like. She holds up her own hair and throws up out of her window -- mostly bile, partially stars.