I am made of cells. This kind of thought always has a hallucinogenic effect on her. Her hands pulsate with the knowledge. In the hidden world of her palms there are a thousand Dali landscapes. In each of them, satin ribbons of endoplasmic reticulum swirl gracefully along the membrane. A rainbow of bulbous, misshapen water balloons float through space. Kidney-bean-red: mitochondria, scrubbed-sky-blue: vacuole, Dijon-mustard-yellow: lyosome, fresh-cut-green: vesicle. Centrioles race through the thick custard plasma like shattering stars. In the far corner, the mysterious golgi apparatus folds in on itself apprehensively. And in the center, spattered with ribosomes, rises the nucleus, a triumphant, pink egg, with DNA twisting in its purple yolk. She wishes she could disappear into this kaleidoscopic world of whimsy that exists in her fingertips. This cell, the one two cells down from her right thumb nail would be her room, her sanctuary. She would sleep on the soft, swollen body of a mitochondria, and use a vacuole for her watery pillow. After waking, she would run her fingers up and down the membrane and feel it tremble like jello. She would swim laps around that Dr. Seuss miracle of science. And in the evenings she would sit on the rough edges of the endoplasmic reticulum and contemplate the secrets kinked and curled inside that quiet pink egg.
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