Maybe a few days after you finish a book, the lingering stench of melancholy wears off, or your internal monologue returns to its regular cadence without influence – but the potted fern you have in the kitchen is no longer just dying and ornamental; it's a motif injected with meaning from a universe away. The panoramic view of a foreign country that flicks across your screen during a travel commercial whispers secrets. You grin conspiratorially at bead bracelets in a shop front and briefly you are a victorian child slinking through market stalls (and away from governesses). Citrus fruits reduce you to tears for vastly different reasons than before you picked up that little novel on vacation. An uncommon adjective in a news article triggers the memory of when you first horribly mispronounced read it aloud as a child.

So I was just walking around my house, all plasma-y, and I pick up some bedsheets that fell out of the laundry basket. Now I THOUGHT they were MY bedsheets, which are essentially everything-proof, but NOPE. They were my mom's, and now there's a fucking hole burned through them. I had to morph my hands into water to extinguish them cause the pipes in our complex are older then Xavier's BALLSACK. Hell, I'm shock there's even anything left of it to be honest.

Moral of the story: Don't use Element Mimicry inside the house. Or at least don't interact with laundry while you use it.

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