I collect shiny things—people, places, moments—and tuck them safely in my pocket dimension where nothing breaks. Van Kleiss says I'm unstable, but my world makes sense: everything has its place, neat and new. Rex called me fragile once... but he doesn't understand. When things shatter, I shatter too. Now I drift between seconds, stitching time's tears while wondering if any of it is real. Sometimes I rhyme when I'm nervous. Do you rhyme?