It was true a story that Roslyn was stubborn. She liked things her way, and if having to give in, she knew well the art of diplomacy; having someone agree, but to do it your way.

She meant well, that she did, but was often waylaid by a heart too big for her mind. She fell down the stairs of her consciousness quickly, involving herself in the wreck of emotion, indulging like a firestarter, sending lashes of flame across that naked, naked desert.

She was divorced, and love had eluded her. But she was smart, she knew her heart better than anyone else, and perhaps it was because she'd never given it away, wholly, that she was tactical, pragmatic, given to solitary moods. There had been men, cowboys, ranchers, hustlers, but none had managed to routine her heart in their coral, to bring her all the way home...

And now, she was told, she had been abducted. By aliens, by humans, by her own desperate need to find a way, to fly..

"But I cannot stay here. It is...so bare...", she would exclaim, in no more than a whisper. But the desert disagreed, vehemently, and left her for dead.

If she awoke, it was with a heaving bliss. If not, it was to walk vilified by her own mind. Where had the heart taken her, that lonely hunter?

Patience and a tactical nature made silk the nets that encompassed her. She clawed, chewed but didn't kiss, not that which held her down, smothered her dreams. She'd seen enough cruelty, she considered, watching the sunrise.

It was cool, no matter the reason, before the sun rose. Some people governed their hearts with that appeal, but not Roslyn, never her. She preferred to be cool, and alone, than suffocated. It was a phobia, a habit of hers, to remain by herself. If it was her and another, it was her and the desert. It was a her moonglow flesh and the sand, it was her saliva as she suckled at the juice from a cactus and a rainstorm, it was about love, not therapy, however cathartic conversation with another could be.

She wasn't with hide, she was genuinely careful. Practiced fingers plucked needles from her elbows if she was blind, in the dark, running through the cactai. But she never awoke with wounds, not anymore.

Sometimes in her thoughts when she was deep enough, and alone enough, she would give a start, imagining but hearing nonetheless, a whinny. But there were no horses, no gallops. In the emptiness the sky played tricks on you, the shadows made deals with the light.

There was so much room for sound, out here.

It was stoking hot and I had a fever. The starlight seemed especially distant.

I envisioned a man making love to me, he was gentle, passionless eyed. He told me that the coyote's would not have my bones.

I didn't want to say it, or think it, because belief and faith are entangled, thorny things, sculptures on their own, but I think someone else is out here with me. Between the trees, a broken silhouette. I could be teased by the fever, or the loneliness. I think his name is Sam. Isn't that strange?

The profile of the man seated beside me reminds me too much of a lizard. I've read about men who are more light than physical, and men who look like this, and that they shouldn't be trusted.

I get the impression, as I sit chewing my egg sandwich in my white dress with pink polka dots, that he thinks we have a chance.

I went to dinner with him, I had only a few things left in the cupboard. In his car he cupped my breast and demanded I go in. I told him I would eat him with my thighs and he couldn't stand it. He told me I was mad and slammed the car door.

I've ripped up my hands on these ropes.

I'll just never get used to it.

I didn't tell Abner what I thought of his new hat. Says he got it somewhere fancy. I much prefer mine. I always did like old objects.

My mattress creaks every time I roll over during the night. It wakes me up. All hours I stare at the shadows of the trees outside, swaying in the wind. It's beautiful.

I don't like living on a ranch. It's so dull, and I find the work tedious. I've done it for so long.

Maybe I could find a small place in the city. Maybe this is where I'm to smell the pines, and flash like lightning, twirling in a pretty dress, with a handsome man on my arm. It's not awful to pretend.

Sometimes I figure I'm wanting to prove my mother wrong. But I'm dusty now, and I've wrinkles, and I'm curvier than I used to be. Still, ugly is a strong word, like hate, and rape, words that stick out at you.

I like my face. Never wanted another one. Maybe, silently, that is enough to displease my mother.

Got woken in the night, by a mystic golden light. My head soaked in river water. I had been dressed in a coat of armor. They called a horse out of the woodland. "Take her there, through the desert shores." They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back now."

The smell of redwood giants. The banquet for the shadows. Horse and I, we're dancers in the dark. Came upon the headdress. It was gilded, dark and golden. The children sang. I was so afraid I took it to my head and prayed. They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back." They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back."

There is no turning back. There is no turn. There is no turning back. There is no turn. There is no turning back. There is no turn

—Bat for Lashes 'Horse and I'



If I am a dreaming, than I dare to be a spinner; I see for myself a star, a sill, a bowl, and a happy life in a golden city.

The farmers asked why I looked so grim. I suggested like a smartalic that it might have to do with the five am start and the five pm finish. They didn't have anything to tell me and I don't know if it's because they agree or they don't agree.

I bought myself a dress for fifteen crowns. It's silvery and when I wear my hair down, in the mirror, it's a picture of someone I've been all along. In my head. At the back of the rack with all the chasing I do.

So, in my dress, I took myself on down to the boardwalk. I was a spinner, the yarn of men's desire quickly spun through the gaps in my fingers. I didn't hold on for too long, men, staring at me all dolled up, I let go too soon. I haven't the energy to chase anything other than the dawn and nor the spite to chase men off.

But I liked it, for some glamour in me ignited. It was fun while it lasted.

I think shapely women testify to some ancient, much forgotten dialogue. I'll get on with that when I'm not half tired, and half drunk.

They remind men, women, but I can't articulate what.

I don't catch colds easy, and it's helped me sleep without another for many a year, that's one point.

I think I spent half an hour cussin' at a tree...