The dust of faith, the disappearance of the men in the boat, the transcendence of hope. A feeling of sorrow and lightness flowing together. A presence.
Trees to reshape your imagination. Both of us branching gaze and breath, hands and steps through their gigantic intricate stories. Antropoforming emotions, dramas and passions. Tragedies. Venalities.
… Just sexdump that girl.
And go for the one that would stab you while you lean your damn brains back in confidence. Full thrust. Gut or chest you red:
“I’ll give you lust mofo!”
As if this proximity to the organic and the vital needs is somewhat inherently manifest in the way people befriend each other here.
ramuri uriase extinse peste tot. maiestuos cu aroma de jasmine, de chiparoase, de flori de tei in plina explozie macerat de multa ploaie de vară. GARDENII! My world!
lf I were to invest in something now it would be a teleporteur. A slow and fast one. Slow to suspend yourself in travelling substance. Fast, so you walk into my life NOW and conversely. Dar de ce! Asta sunt acum. Oamenii astia!
“…the reality is this image of her has so deeply connected to my neuronic mapping of feelings or sensation of love, that despite all rational reasons, or true attachments to others or crazy total love stories I’d go through, she somehow peeps out of the pits and shows up again in my dreams. Her face, her demure, voice even is the mask of intense…”
There was a thin difference between our world and theirs, we came around each other touching our hands and seeing each other’s faces, but passing by one another. As if the light of our each universes would find acknowledgement in each other’s gaze, but somehow reflect to remain in each respective sphere, with no crossover. Only the sound and the smell would travel through weaving a common thread.
I liked how G’s hair felt a part of it. Or how it would rhyme with the landscape. Fooled around a lot with it, and I believe the last snap of her silhouette like a genie of the place really captures the mix of play and mystery. A smouldering evening. My Kathleen Turner of our tropical forest.
[…] Margot was blasting blood into my nostrils and I could taste the red in the air, blushing into my nose, my tongue, chocking with love. Sunny days, full of her smell. Suffocating in want. That’s where it’s from.