Spokes in the galaxy that turned on and on, giant wheel, clattered and clanged in her headphones. She sat on a hill, its highest point, watching the moon. She often dreamed that she flew beneath it, and ended up, somehow, which is the invariable nature of dreams, running down a winding spiral stair case in pink sand shoes in a bright purple jumper and ending up in a pit of ghost-snakes, silent and writhing in white.
Little Sun never did understand the dream or where it came from. She could relate to aspects of it, the fragments of reality that remained in her subconscious when freewheeling; the rose cardigan, the black stitch dress, the great white string she hung from, the balloon as a moon.
She shook her head and scratched it in confusion, after having the dream, and troddered off into the world to buy clothes or food or cuddle her nephews and nieces and give them chocolate, and the dog too, under the table, to be the auntie she wasn't supposed to be but was loved for.
The dark haired savant hung her head and stared over the railing into the tranquil waters of the Seine. The world was bleak and fringed in a coldness that nipped at the bones and hummed in the ears with unspeakable things. Unuttered thinkings that survived in the wind.
She liked standing here, amongst the strangers that passed by, headphones blaring and the world disassociated. The trees were bare and the faces of the passing strangers were blank. Nothing gave unto another. We trust people not to push us into puddles when they are standing behind us. Not to shove us in front of a bus. And yet we never smile or speak, out of the blue, when someone begs us the slightest interest. All the things we shall never know.
With her hands in her pocket, on the curb, a little while later, she was still thinking of these things. A very small woman, with her stick legs and arms and long, dark mouth. She was like a puppet, something from a cartoon noir. Someone who looked like they knew more than they let on, as if a knowing smile was the cartography of her lips, stitched there, and gave way to an enchanting person. Behind the swaying black bangs and the green eyeshadow she wore when going out of an evening.
Everyone had cogs turning behind the eyes. She loved, simply, to hear them squeak.
Little Sun never did understand the dream or where it came from. She could relate to aspects of it, the fragments of reality that remained in her subconscious when freewheeling; the rose cardigan, the black stitch dress, the great white string she hung from, the balloon as a moon.
She shook her head and scratched it in confusion, after having the dream, and troddered off into the world to buy clothes or food or cuddle her nephews and nieces and give them chocolate, and the dog too, under the table, to be the auntie she wasn't supposed to be but was loved for.
The dark haired savant hung her head and stared over the railing into the tranquil waters of the Seine. The world was bleak and fringed in a coldness that nipped at the bones and hummed in the ears with unspeakable things. Unuttered thinkings that survived in the wind.
She liked standing here, amongst the strangers that passed by, headphones blaring and the world disassociated. The trees were bare and the faces of the passing strangers were blank. Nothing gave unto another. We trust people not to push us into puddles when they are standing behind us. Not to shove us in front of a bus. And yet we never smile or speak, out of the blue, when someone begs us the slightest interest. All the things we shall never know.
With her hands in her pocket, on the curb, a little while later, she was still thinking of these things. A very small woman, with her stick legs and arms and long, dark mouth. She was like a puppet, something from a cartoon noir. Someone who looked like they knew more than they let on, as if a knowing smile was the cartography of her lips, stitched there, and gave way to an enchanting person. Behind the swaying black bangs and the green eyeshadow she wore when going out of an evening.
Everyone had cogs turning behind the eyes. She loved, simply, to hear them squeak.