Something is breaking underfoot...a long brittle trail of tiny white snail shells filled with smelling salts.
She is over ripe - seducing entry and escape from the cracks in between things, stitches bursting, she gets stuck...again. Her wanting is too big.
There. Slab of need - Bound. Ripped. Glued. Choked by the folds of desire and pricked by souvenirs from places better forgotten: Victorian shame, historic misunderstanding, deadly rejection: an unsightly blow, a broken spirit, the end.
Now tethered by this unfortunate ruff, she is surrounded by the conversation of crows and the swish of tires in the rain in the alley in the puddles in the endless twilight of this singular dawn.
with a snap and a swish and a crunch and that whiff...she is folded into the field on the hill, in the day in the sun somewhere else, surrounded by olive trees, and filled with dry grasses covered in tiny white snails suspended in the thick sweet pudding of a freedom so unfamiliar.
And again, now she is lying on a large flat rock island near the side of the river. It's surface radiating heat as it starts to rain - big fat drops, each descending rotund bomb releasing the smell of dust and a little trickle of steam who's vapor fills her cells and grip her like the freedom she felt once in that field of snails.
She finds another pocket. This time a thread to a den and the memories of little brushes - which fill her completely.
Now - suspended she waits.
Now - flesh wound tight. She is here, not there.
Now spilled...and the smell of that nail polish on the floor of her car is overwhelming.
and what was she before...and again is here again