Last night I dreamed I was at a party—one of those sprawling, slightly off-kilter gatherings where everyone seems to know each other except you. Somewhere between the dip table and a hallway strung with dying fairy lights, a stranger cornered me with an unusual request: would I mind lifting a giant, heavy purple starfish—about the weight of a vintage ceramic ashtray—and pressing it onto their face?
Why? Exfoliation, apparently.
And so I did. I lifted the starfish, stuck it to their face, peeled it off, and reapplied. Again and again. Each repetition turned my arms into iron cables. My grip hardened. My forearms bulged like coiled ropes. I could feel the transformation happening—quietly, steadily—beneath my sleeves. I was becoming a beast through the sacred art of facial starfish resistance training.
At first, the task filled me with low-level panic. Was I doing it right? Was this hygienic? Why me? But repetition, as always, breeds ease. Soon, I could apply and pry the purple creature with smooth, balletic rhythm, chatting breezily with other party guests while keeping time with my new invertebrate dance partner. What began as absurdity settled into ritual.
No one questioned what I was doing. It was simply understood that this person needed the starfish, and I was the designated applier. No ceremony, no applause. Just quiet fulfillment in knowing my function. I performed my duty with the solemnity of a monk folding laundry—strong, sure, and ready to do it forever.
Cinemorphosis 
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