Some weeks you spend making yourself smaller to fit the room, until you've shrunk past where you actually are; this borrows Harajuku's bright nerve.

Gold easing into orange, a gentle white. It rings like an open chord and smells of warm citrus and dry grass in the sun.

Shrinking to fit can feel like courtesy; mostly it just disappears you. It moves no one else to make room — it holds a bright turn toward yourself, where you can take up the space you actually take, brightly and without apology.