The story I'm going to tell, is not my story. It is the story of someone, who is telling a story which is very similar to his own. The dream I will remember, won't be mine. It's the dream of someone who remembers a dream, that is very similar to his own. I think of stories I like to make stories. To tell them. I know this must sound like the dream of little Iasonas. What will he be when he grows up. When I wake up, it'll happen again. It'll start all over...
It was more as if she had withdrawn into her own body,
and left it to itself and its own quiet rhythms,
unbothered by any input from her mind,
oblivious to the outside world.
... she was slowflowing, graceful, seductive
... an invitation to forget the world
in the recesses of the body.
POSTED BY
Under Control
at
9:12 AM