Post-historic fable

As a female, I come to this subject with consternation about the heroine’s taboo: fleeing headlong from ravishing afflictions, she enters the vast negative to find quandaries erupting as the limit of space. She becomes involved in a forested area where chance and luck fret at the periphery of objects. Inchoate desire brings attachment to the self-portrait. Events take place over a missing hour: to pinpoint where, she queries when. After her adversaries shoot the pale green weeks, she rubs their scruples against palpable realignment. Although no intimacy of wrongdoing takes place, invulnerability ebbs away.

she’s eager to set off in the blue environs. hell in a prom dress. a boy asks to borrow her mattress. he brings starlings with him to wreck havoc. intimacy is in fact ruptured. is he even awake? there’s no logic to affection, plush to the touch. repeatedly (each time it comes to mind). she attempts to identify the species. everyone is eating something different. it’s a consolation. a package containing a ream of blank paper. escritoire in English. no border between to lie on as she does.

                                        but someone else is now mistress of elusion. expected to plant something verdant as a donation. contributors are written into parts: her so sharp, fractious (the next morning). she has some connection to both sides. and voila! she passes around a stack of photos. carrying the deceased up the mountain and into the room. the general impression is one of shoulders. and mouths wide open. she’s still alive to write my name under the lintel. all’s in order at this end. all is chaos at the other.

                                        mystery night drives by in a sports car. uncertain going somewhere. this new version. beauty pageant in a pastry shop. when she thinks about living there, her life line goes flat. her first clue that she’s not where she thinks she is. I might know where she was headed when she left for Paris. but his arms are filled with wooden batons. smudged eye shadow is something wrong with her. they’re traveling on a map, a painted canvas I turn into a bracelet. as the pattern shifts, it becomes more intricate and spontaneous. pretty hard to miss, but she’s on her own dilemmas. there’s also the question of who will sleep where. engulfed in a sea of flesh.

I mistake the moment of the heroine’s pleasure. Her impossible weight in our difficult city.

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