Big and small change coats as soon as the morning lights my mirror. The right side of my face swells like a friendly comet, a sail of skin and memory catching the light; the left remains a slender moon searching for a safe word through cracks. I lean into the day and the furniture shifts to the right as if gravity is in love with asymmetry. They say that measure has a measuring tape—I know that measure is a fever, rising under the eye of the measurer and falling as soon as I'm alone. When I walk, the horizon limps. To the right, a forest of larger thoughts rustles, leaves as wide as bedsheets on which unwritten novels sleep. To the left, a field of miniatures vibrates: windmills grinding seeds, houses breathing in matchboxes, voices that sound like sand in a glass tube. My smile goes crooked, a bridge clinging to only one shore. The clocks choose sides—on the right wall, seconds stretch out like cathedrals, on the left wall, minutes dart away like silver fish. I visit the market of proportions, where traders sell kilos of shadows and the smallest stall weighs the heaviest silence. A merchant measures my profile with two ribbons—one that stretches with admiration, one that shrinks with doubt. He nods to my right cheek, which hangs off the map like a continent, with mountain ranges of pores and rivers of smile lines. My left cheek is an island without a harbor, only a porcelain lighthouse that casts flashes on disappearing ships. I pay with a coin as large as a thought and as small as a pin.