"I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!" —T. Roethke
A dream walking! The image strikes Julia, and she lifts her hands, naked white sticks of finger, to her lipless mouth and laughs. She has no breath to propel such sound, nor tongue to shape it, but the laughter, like her speech, appears in the air around her; an act of will.
But she is exactly that, torn from the dreamworld by accident or intent, she walks on the other side of that mirror now. Empty eye sockets. so uncannily expressive as they gather in scraps of light or shadow, look down at herself. Long sticks of arm emerging from the yellow sleeveless sundress she wears (a style she favors, typically in bright, even girlish colors). She wears it fitted snug to her ribcage, showcasing its beauty as if it still formed the undercarriage for taut, full young breasts. Below, the dress cuddles tight across the span of her hipbones only to bell out, swishy, flirty, ending up above the joints of her knees, showing off just enough of the ivory bones of her thighs.
She smiles, just a small separation of the lipless teeth serving to make the gesture. Julia approves of what she sees. She was made so by the dreamer, after all, and the dreamer found beauty in her form, as well as in the fuller form that seems to exist around her always, but that only certain eyes and rare magics can reveal.
But a dream knows no free will, no choice, no final death, even. There are many things for her to learn, now that she has been called into this place, now that the first kiss upon her lipless mouth has anchored her here, made her truly Juila Here rather than Julia From There.
She tips her head, and the light slants shadow across her empty sockets, the effect makes her appear wistful. Love, she believes, may be the one constant between these worlds, and that is, after all, the kind of dream she was....
She cradles cheekbone in the white branch of a hand, and thinks about what might be...the dream is dreaming.
"I was just bony hands of cold as a winter pole you held a warm stone out new flowing blood to hold oh what a contrast you were to the brutes in the halls my timid young fingers held a decent animal." —The Shins
A dream walking! The image strikes Julia, and she lifts her hands, naked white sticks of finger, to her lipless mouth and laughs. She has no breath to propel such sound, nor tongue to shape it, but the laughter, like her speech, appears in the air around her; an act of will.
But she is exactly that, torn from the dreamworld by accident or intent, she walks on the other side of that mirror now. Empty eye sockets. so uncannily expressive as they gather in scraps of light or shadow, look down at herself. Long sticks of arm emerging from the yellow sleeveless sundress she wears (a style she favors, typically in bright, even girlish colors). She wears it fitted snug to her ribcage, showcasing its beauty as if it still formed the undercarriage for taut, full young breasts. Below, the dress cuddles tight across the span of her hipbones only to bell out, swishy, flirty, ending up above the joints of her knees, showing off just enough of the ivory bones of her thighs.
She smiles, just a small separation of the lipless teeth serving to make the gesture. Julia approves of what she sees. She was made so by the dreamer, after all, and the dreamer found beauty in her form, as well as in the fuller form that seems to exist around her always, but that only certain eyes and rare magics can reveal.
But a dream knows no free will, no choice, no final death, even. There are many things for her to learn, now that she has been called into this place, now that the first kiss upon her lipless mouth has anchored her here, made her truly Juila Here rather than Julia From There.
She tips her head, and the light slants shadow across her empty sockets, the effect makes her appear wistful. Love, she believes, may be the one constant between these worlds, and that is, after all, the kind of dream she was....
She cradles cheekbone in the white branch of a hand, and thinks about what might be...the dream is dreaming.
"I was just bony hands of cold as a winter pole you held a warm stone out new flowing blood to hold oh what a contrast you were to the brutes in the halls my timid young fingers held a decent animal." —The Shins