:)

The sky is like a monochromatic contemporary painting, drawing me in with its illusion for depth, pulling me up. "Yeah, that's true," I say. But then after I think about it for second, I add, "But then again, if you don't imagine, nothing ever happens at all." Imaginings isn't perfect. You can't get all the way inside someone else. I could never have imagined her anger at being found, or the story she was writing over. But imagining being someone else, or the world being something else, is the only way in. It is the machine that kills fascists. She turns over toward me and puts her head onto my shoulder, and we lie there, as I long ago imagined lying on the grass at SeaWorld. It has taken us thousand of miles and many days, but here we are: her head on my shoulder, her breath on my neck, the fatigue thick inside both of us. We are now as I wished we could be then.

It's beautiful

15 jan 2016 - meld ongepast verhaal

Felynxx, vrouw, 22 jaar

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