Whatever got slipped in my drink, it isn’t working. My pen has come to life just to tell me this, all wild-eyed and red. Its feather still won’t fly. I am a prisoner of time, as are we all, and a citizen of France, as every deposed despot must eventually become. My interpreter balks at the mystery undressing itself in my head: so much untying and unlacing! It’s enervating. No wonder he prefers straight talk. As if the dancers he follows so avidly aren’t also speaking with every twist and sway. They are saying hell yes to some heaven that barely exists, shiny as a soap bubble in the sun. I have never seen more clearly than in artificial light.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- A Week of Kindness
- Herbaceous
- Crushed
- Breast Man
- Manic Pixie Dream Consultant
- Lord of Misrule
- Lilium martagon
- Cat Person
- Escape Artist
- Provincial
- Black site
- Love Machine
- Lionheart
- The Song of the Womb
- Fallen Woman
- Postmortem
- Floating World (Ukiyo)
- Insomniac’s Revenge
- Travel Anxiety
- What Does the Shadow Know?
- Exile
- Desecration
- Bubbly
- The Comeback Kid
- Outside-in
- Sequestered
- White Lady
- Invested
- Mater
- Blow
- Submission
- Biofeedback
- Public Servant
- Executive
- Specialist
- Officialdom
- Prayer Warriors
- Bitter End
- Riparian
- Cabaret
- Accommodation
- Treedom
- Livid
- Flood Watch
- Iemanja
- Imprisoned
- Downward Mobility
- Sirenity
- Somniloquy
- Master Debaters
- Helene