She rejected the memory.
It was blue, topaz-like, evidently smeared with the unknown colours of her barren and cloistered womanhood. She felt the need to traverse time, go backwards in the misty halo and stand there. The liquid transience of her immaculate eyes...
They remained the only feature he had liked.
She had gouged open the silken wounds that were to pawn her insides onto a breathtakingly beautiful picaresque novel that she was writing---or that she claimed that she was writing.
She was not writhing.,she was,merely creating a falsehood, an inscription that was,like the daguerreotype made in golden petals of the silver tree of providence. Fated to lose everything, including her identity, she could only find refuge in the past, in history, that she had taken,great pains to elevate. Erasing the immoral parts, proving that she was the pious outcome of the event meant for blasphemy. Immortalized on the other side of the world, where dreams make complete sense to strangers who appeared in it. Patience and a painkiller, a Hitchcock book, or a cup of chardonnay. Peace prevailed in the haunts of the subconscious that her imagination made.
Disease. Face. Mask. Disease. Peeled. Anointed. Disease. Body. Pus. Fever. Nausea. Disease. Prevention. Cure. Disease. Blood. Death. Disease. Release. Freedom. Disease.
Hands, clawed, with the talons of an eagle, to hold firm to the material earth after her demise from the unnatural macrocosm. Now emerald, blood flowed like a serpent's. Easy, cold and emerald. And colours of the palette merged together to form the black. A spectrum of rainbow colours had conglomerated. Heavens had reopened and the rains came down. Thick white rains. They forcibly flew, as if with the wings of Hermes. They were medicines. And they danced on the black of the disease.
Life became grey.
It was blue, topaz-like, evidently smeared with the unknown colours of her barren and cloistered womanhood. She felt the need to traverse time, go backwards in the misty halo and stand there. The liquid transience of her immaculate eyes...
They remained the only feature he had liked.
She had gouged open the silken wounds that were to pawn her insides onto a breathtakingly beautiful picaresque novel that she was writing---or that she claimed that she was writing.
She was not writhing.,she was,merely creating a falsehood, an inscription that was,like the daguerreotype made in golden petals of the silver tree of providence. Fated to lose everything, including her identity, she could only find refuge in the past, in history, that she had taken,great pains to elevate. Erasing the immoral parts, proving that she was the pious outcome of the event meant for blasphemy. Immortalized on the other side of the world, where dreams make complete sense to strangers who appeared in it. Patience and a painkiller, a Hitchcock book, or a cup of chardonnay. Peace prevailed in the haunts of the subconscious that her imagination made.
Disease. Face. Mask. Disease. Peeled. Anointed. Disease. Body. Pus. Fever. Nausea. Disease. Prevention. Cure. Disease. Blood. Death. Disease. Release. Freedom. Disease.
Hands, clawed, with the talons of an eagle, to hold firm to the material earth after her demise from the unnatural macrocosm. Now emerald, blood flowed like a serpent's. Easy, cold and emerald. And colours of the palette merged together to form the black. A spectrum of rainbow colours had conglomerated. Heavens had reopened and the rains came down. Thick white rains. They forcibly flew, as if with the wings of Hermes. They were medicines. And they danced on the black of the disease.
Life became grey.
