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And so it became Friday - the first free weekend she'd had in dogs' years. or maybe two weekends. The mother had gotten her so stirred up or had prayed for her to find her prey.
Narcissi walked behind the garbage trucks because she couldn't be bothered to be flexible on the time. The wafting smell of rot can really become a metaphor.
Because it had been so long to even have a whiff of anything real, the whiff made her terrified, but maybe she could look at it differently - as just something.
The thought caused her to pace and go to the mirror for comfort - as she had seen so many times before. She realized just now that she had been in all of his cities.
Since the mother had gone, she'd been tired and unable to sleep. The orange cat kept waking her. Perhaps tonight she'd try the guest room.
She was trying to try on her cowboy boots more - making them a second skin. For some reason, this comforted her. What were the reasons? Did she care?
It had been so easy to spend money.
This was the third time she had written the same thing, a whispered manifesto in chalk:
"my body may be fat, bruised, imperfect and the head that crowns it old and sagging too - yet I'm weary of empty lonely touches that seem performative. I want real. I want focus. whatever it is, I want love."
The gallery all laughed at her or with her.
"what do you think we want? chopped liver"
"but you're probably young and interesting and beautiful while I'm declined."
"cry us all a river. we're actually dead or figurative."
Communicating was so hard and untangling the strings she had messed up.
Yet try she shall.
allways
Will this be gone? will this be trite? they have all sounded trite to her, but perhaps she wrote it better before. She just wanted to sleep currently.
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