Of Hydrangeas and Home

Slow childish vinyl, slow at once when night iced with one’s insomnia, the ones that burst like prepared alarm atomic clocks, minced now and then, tacks crawling in without..The balconies were but a parchment in string, stationary, at heart resigned, and hence had sixth looks. Jen said they were rather first order, depending at times, the madness of the inoccupant rather than the beating of the wind, genus looming over sinking metal.

The clothing of the apartments were but both asymmetrical and non reflexive, chides of lilacs or tangerine whites resuscitating between the aesthetics of each little home. This pattern only extended till the first twenty floors and the last. Ours were plucked white and dépaysé, sublime of aristocracy and unfaltered romance, they were with us and not us at different times, middle earth.

When Sao was only six, now as gentle revolutions came, thinking of order and death, starch in paradise, the meter of the extent of love, its pathetic finiteness, a cherish of vomiting emerged in her body. The dressings in whites were just a wavefront forming, a synthetic catalyst to then my baby’s primordial visions of decay and infertility.

We would have her see, what was then, tonic yet entrenched in the desire to be colorful, to beg for fetishism, to beg against the patriarchal insectivore, human… vegetative.

"What I really felt at first,  of dampness, how his heart and then mine must have… a tinge, a smear of bloodlust escaping like midwife’s carousel ,the succulent white noise darkening with saintly insistence around our corners, after all these years, you think you get used to the claustrophobia, but you don't, it makes y