Every morning she finds her feelings all over the place. Just lying there, motionless. Wet and pathetic. Every morning she picks them up and tidies them up nicely. She dries them with an old hairdryer and arranges them very carefully in a small pile.
Every morning, those same feelings crumble.
She devotes a whole second to admire the disaster.
Then she rushes out. She's late for class.
She drives her little car.