A crowneckish cloud, floating just over our triumph. And the moon and the stars are all taken aback by its impudence. Like the off-keyed howl of a psychedelic harmony, it belongs to the whole, and, yet is just too individual to merge into the interstellar strumming altogether. Rainbow- it conceals beneath the wings. The wings, though, are made of flowers. Often, in my sweet indolence, I have smelt the white yoke of hyacinths. I call her my hyacinth girl. No matter, what the voices say.
It's amazing, how you can find your own voice in times of cholera! The other room might sap the last drop of your resistance, but lo and behold, it actually charms the snake into being a snake and that’s all there is!
Beautiful, beautiful death lingers there. In Ginny’s smile. With promises that are never going to be kept. Like the unkempt hair that often sweeps across her face, when I touch the tip of her nose. There lies my salvation. Our salvation.
The worms are in my flesh. I had been wronged in my birth, and will be wronged in my death. Only when I touch the centre of us, even if it cannot hold, it feels like life. And light. And shadow. And extended guitar solos of a certain Mark Knopfler.
Us and Us. It will always be like this.
Remember us, if at all, not as lost violent souls, but as people who had suffered not to be separated, and who had tried to cry unto each other. Like in a mirror.
That’ll do.
