My soul, what’s lighter than a feather? Wind.
Than wind? The fire. And what than fire? The mind.
What’s lighter than the mind? A thought. Than thought?
This bubble world. What than this bubble? Nought.
My soul, what’s lighter than a feather? Wind.
Than wind? The fire. And what than fire? The mind.
What’s lighter than the mind? A thought. Than thought?
This bubble world. What than this bubble? Nought.
“We have all lived in the hive. The walls bending from a thousand, scavenged paintings, every one in dissonance with the others. Rooms cluttered with chairs and cheap, expensive rugs. On one of the mattresses my blood, under the sheets. Hotbodied nights. A landscape of my blood painting mistake after mistake until the word is meaningless. Until the act is.”
Alyssa Morhardt-Goldstein | Nympholepsy