A woman is slathering pomade on my scalp. It is a curious feeling; I imagine a snail crawling, leaving behind it a trail of something glistening and sticky. The insides of the woman’s fingers are filled with a substance—flakes of dried dandruffy laughter, and limp, buttery dust motes, and the dribbly sounds of tadpoles gurgling in a muddy creek.

From Soulfool.