The entries remain unordered as usual, from different periods of her time at the Academy. Questions, comments, guesses welcome. Have at it.

[Joss is boss, River is not mine, etc. ad nauseum, ad infinitum...] Thanks to Bytemite for the beta.

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ENTRY #????

This isn’t for anything, just a short-story exercise. I was thinking of sending it off to Simon, but he hasn’t replied to any of my letters lately, so I’ll postpone it. It’s likely that work at the hospital has increased, and he doesn’t have much time for the musings of a fourteen-year-old sister.

I wondered what it would be like to be one of those girls, the dress-dolls in the window, a hundred street-shifting eyes on you, but not on you. On your dress. A living mannequin is designed to not exist, and yet must draw the eyes of potential customers. I don’t know if I’ve managed to underline the paradox. I think I haven’t.

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"Day Job" ---The Life of A "Mannequin" on Persephone

Alt. title: "Weltanschauung"

I am a picture in a window-frame.

Flawless skin where it can be seen. My hair is as sculpted. Not one of the shadows outside the glass remarks on my eyes, remarks on anything. They won't, if I'm doing my job. They won't know anything at all. I have replaced the machines because here is no art in metal. I show how the fabric moves: we are one motion. Every week I say goodbye to us--to a dress. I remember each of them.

It's a special technique, the 'glass eyes'. We reflect back their faces in my own, their bodies in our dress. Every single one— the art of a million faces. At night, another steps into my alcove, lit fantastically.

They are dressed in the night fashions.

They, dress and performer--as we, my own dress and I--are vitally important. Remarkable facility in every facet. I am not allowed to speak of any dress after it disappears. But I can see the layers of each of us even after they're gone; I