11.08.06

where is it going?

The sound of rain on the roof of the train reminds me of crystalline drops hitting a tin roof in the summertime. Nearby there will be fireflies switching on and off in their little Morse code dance and somewhere there will be a lake, a family of ducks taking their first swim together in a perfect triangle. There will be a couple kissing in the arms of the wind before autumn.
Now the haystacks pass my window, bundled up in their golden circles, tied together in the field. I like to think that the wheat goes straight to my bread each morning, that it was picked and ground just for me.
It�s so easy to dream here.
On plane rides, it�s so easy to think of the softness that must be passing over the wings. The clouds look like fluffy safe cotton, as if giant kingdoms filled with air. If I fell out, I would only bounce and cause a tiny puff of smoke. But then, clouds are only water particles. Only condensation. If I fell I would not bounce. There would be no smoke.
Someone was threatening to jump off the Eiffel tower. It seemed strange because all around the tower was so still with the snow covering the lawn like down. The tower rose out of the snow, dusted like a Christmas candy, dazzling in its lights and its delicate metal rungs. If he fell, would the down fly up in a cloud around him?
There was the first night at the hostel. The concierge behind the big blue door had only sighed, looked at me with his cork brown skin, as if tired of seeing girls like me with big bags a small pursed mouths. The girl upstairs was making her way across the continents. She began in California and had lost track of her mates somewhere around Edingsburough. Now, she was only waiting, and as she lay on the thin mattress, she moaned because a worm she had found in Argentina was making its slow way through her intestines. The other girl, she smiled at me. I don�t think she spoke French, or English, but in the mornings, I would see her applying shadow to her dusty eyes, her lips hanging open and wet. The doves were cooing, fluttering somewhere above our room where I couldn�t see anything, but occasionally a single feather would float down to us, and settle gently on the windowsill. There was no wind to blow it away.
She had laughed. I felt the echo of it brush against me as it ran past and I turned. She was looking at me with a smile relaxing on her lips in red and I could see she was still trembling from the laughter. I wanted to ask her name. She wouldn�t tell me.
� Tu es Am�ricaine, � she called. � Tu es perdue? �
Her skin to me was golden, rum coloured against the twinkling dark of Paris. Her thighs are smooth, soft with oil. The tiny hairs there glint yellow in the sunlight like fine thread. Her fingers are soft though she chews them and her nails do not scratch. I think she bites to make up for it.

shi-ou-sama at 10:11 p.m.

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