It is in the way things unwind, in the way the world seems to burn just when I begin to miss it. It is the words or the fumes, this sense of loss that imbues everything with some sacramental preciousness. The act of thinking making something still so dear. I miss friends, I miss the dead, I miss deeds, I miss speaking. I am so adrift in this little blurring between is and was that I am missing things I only wished for, thinking that it feels like reviewing movies no one ever made. The strange glistening of insect wings in this dusty fluorescence. They heavy-handed scent of spring scratching at the heart caught in my throat. The safety imagined from some scant carpentry. Doors, a ceiling, windows made to watch the workings of this world.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
jacksons:
Thanks for your comments dear! I also love you noticed how short the wookie was... We figure she was the unforunate offspring of a wookie, and a ewok... We didn't have anyone taller to help out! *L*
squee:
Thank you so much for your lovely comment on my MR set, Garden Of Love