AHHH! So much excitement for such a small Charlotte Muffin.
It was difficult to tell what she was tossing and what she wasn't. Mostly as Charlotte waded through her room, a rustling tornado, or perhaps tidal wave, of papers billowed behind her. Some were math notes, Chinese quizzes, dirty pizza napkins. Some were unfinished essays or lines of famous poems (And when wind and winter harden all the loveless land...) or scribbled, scratched-out lines of her own. There was an overwhelming number of pictures drawn of her on all kinds of paper, though. Maybe even a hundred. A hundred angles, a hundred moods, a hundred unique styles peppered her floor. And the books: book after book, black, sequined, smelling of rose perfume or cheese burgers, torn to pieces or still packaged in plastic wrap, empty and near-empty journals ruled that room in cities of their own scary, blank pages. Charlotte's face was empty as she made her way through the crinkling hurricane to her metropolis of unfinished, unstarted works. She forgot the mounds of papers and began restacking her books.