She had golden finger and toe nails. There were also marbles, buttons, and crow feathers in her hair. At times, I was not quite sure what made her basket of pomegranates so valuable. But there were a few small bits of colored glass in there that gave me itchy fingers. The matter was somehow compromised when I shook her arm up and down on that warm sticky night.
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I knew that I would be asking her to do some things she hadn’t done before. And, I hadn’t burrowed in the sand in such a concentrated way ever! Some of the more emotional or naturalistic stuff would be strictly forbidden. I know she has a fantasy life in a town she’s never been to. Should she dare to go and face the reality?
The question is: am I really witnessing the transformation of a bronze sculptured girl into self-sublation and dissolution? Will this be a newly transformed life for her? Its almost an eschatological revelation toward her reality, and my arms tighten as she struggles for a conversational gambit.
Without going too much into the meaning of life, let me just say: I have recently been ploughing through a thinnish topcrust of green. The reason for my movement into color is as diversified as multicultural society. I am arguing against all the ideals stemming from the sounds heard above the hubbub. I am against a left-wing minority blind to the imbalance these ideals might bring to the art of wrapping fish correctly in newspaper.
I considered using my design skills to create a gift for her. She soon realized I was thinking about this, and closed the distance between the cool shade of her fingers. What if I also renovated the pavilion near the pool? Could this further clarify our collection of mattresses and flea-bags? I stopped whistling and shook my fist.
Yes, sometimes I stop and take a break from masturbation. Other times I’m between being sad and saying breathless goodbyes. The most substantial experience I’ve recently had was repairing port installations crumpled by bombs. Right now, I just finished writing a novel which is about a character emerging from a criss-cross of scratchings and whirrings.
The use of dandelion roots in art is something that probably needs to be described very carefully. Right now it seems there is a tendency to put a lot of emphasis on the “taste” of some types of these roots. But it still remains to be seen if these roots are really useful or are merely an expression of sensitivity about the elusive nature and value of plant life.
This is how she becomes a frustration. What she expresses most, beyond her unconscious intention, is a curious shuffling to the tingling of a tambourine. This experience, or existence, is the irreconcilable result of how she approaches a blinding drizzle. Simply, she is what she wants to be. I think her life is an expression of an embodiment that never fully expresses itself, except on a brown hill where rocks are still wet and bats utter shrill cries.
My calculations convinced me that I needed to chastise forbidden thoughts. In other words, it would be a sound stroke of personal policy. I was only helping my friends, I thought later, with a ridiculous air of contrition. But, excess contrition may be a wall of hard rock, meaning it stays in a series of trenches and parapets, and becomes rather an amusing crisis involving this deeply rooted belief.
I stared at her for a long time, wondering why she attempted to elucidate the problem. What’s unlikely is that she’s got Lyme. Although some vexing questions were raised by her wet eyelashes, she proposed to halt. Groaning and panting, we curled together in snake-like form, and kissed in the blazing sunlight.
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August 2018
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