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(dialogue between self and the internal)/Alba
In death there was the tiny brightness of a pin, almost like a diamond to her and her memory and her illness. The man in the blue shirt is her husband and he smells of smoke and cedars and honey. I imagine her. I imagine his hair wet and how it feels like snow as she twists it in her hands. Rumour has it his way was to leave her a woman on her own. He didn’t care about the poverty of her mind.
All he cared about was his things and his playground. There’s enough light in this room where the algorithms of love are at play. His hair smells of smoke and honey. The bright air smells of incense burning and the bay that harbours familiar ghosts. She tracks them down with raw, vital energy, the sacred contract between good and evil.
Nature is the highest art. Dance, vision, woundedness, sense and sensibility, they are all physical poetry and there’s enough biology in both. What was the Englishwoman Jane Austen thinking?
Eternity is infinite. The internal is infinite. The self is infinite. Staring into something is infinite. There’s something infinite about approaching betrayal too.
Death is infinite. The way of the spirit, the universe, the human is infinite.
In death there was the tiny brightness of a pin, almost like a diamond to her and her memory and her illness. The man in the blue shirt is her husband and he smells of smoke and cedars and honey. I imagine her. I imagine his hair wet and how it feels like snow as she twists it in her hands. Rumour has it his way was to leave her a woman on her own. He didn’t care about the poverty of her mind.
All he cared about was his things and his playground. There’s enough light in this room where the algorithms of love are at play. His hair smells of smoke and honey. The bright air smells of incense burning and the bay that harbours familiar ghosts. She tracks them down with raw, vital energy, the sacred contract between good and evil.
Nature is the highest art. Dance, vision, woundedness, sense and sensibility, they are all physical poetry and there’s enough biology in both. What was the Englishwoman Jane Austen thinking?
Eternity is infinite. The internal is infinite. The self is infinite. Staring into something is infinite. There’s something infinite about approaching betrayal too.
Death is infinite. The way of the spirit, the universe, the human is infinite.
1 comment:
Goodness gracious Abigail! What the hell did you just do to my brain!
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