| dewy decimal |
2003-07-23 - 4:31 p.m.
Shari and I have fallen off our slippery rock, what once was an island. Into a past. Inside the deficits of the ocean. At this moment, she's washing off her make up. Her thoughts are barely audible. A bouquet of wet hair springs from the back of her head through the grip of a damp scrunchy . Dreams are less obsessed and she falls asleep to the long, whispering, icy breath of the fridge that is never properly closed. It mimics a heartbeat. She breathes along in her sleep, inviting a dialogue between herself and a machine.
And that is, simply, what I think.