Rumplestiltskin spins a morning from the lost sand of L’Atlantide

Over toast and tea, like a melancholy Ondine, he daydreams of the sea, humpback cries bowing to the bows of a Bartok string quartet, each note birthed of hopeless longing. Later, the lonely little creature sews and stuffs poppets, listless. Like narwhal teeth forever transfiguring equine anthropology, hidden deep within, the unrequited writhes, caught in a nascent net, whirling to the surface dark desires, turbulent sadness, a frantic fantastic fever.
“A child!”