crumpled muslin caps, etc

A melancholic's cream-stained regency morning dress worn well past midnight, white muslin and satin grown heavy with torpor, lace-trimmed cap askew over hair unwashed and unpinned for days. Yesterday's rice pudding congealing in bone china teacups, spiced cardamom linen sachets tucked into untouched pillows, the intimate smell of unwashed scalp beneath crumpled muslin caps. The ontological vertigo experienced by a doppelganger's reflection - am I the copy or the original, is this morning or evening, why does this chemisette smell like vanilla and the milky price of sweetness, the ghost of tiny, crushed wings. The sleepless moon, bedimmed and bedeviled, bears witness to another pale, faceless shadow in the window