She still cannot get rid of his fur’s smell out of her hair and periodontitis out of crooked (rebellious) teeth. It draws blood from between the gingival cloud. The thick fur grows in the line of her paper-thin shadow. Her eye, obedient to the Moon, dilates the pupils. The rabies jumps wildly down the throat. Night by Night, a blade of smell guides her through dark rooms. The smell of dust and mustiness means that she is already in the right place. Launched limply herself at the bed. Like a dead deer. The bedlinen bends under her bones and a cold layer of epidermis, under which a swamps is rippling, a forest is rustling, some foxes are hunting, the mushrooms makes circles, in which the fairies puts their slim leg. Window. The stars. Snow. Her hips deflect light, bends it – the delta of this light drain into the navel (it nearly trickles). View of these bright patches on her stomach makes her sleepy. She falls asleep entangled in vigilant, though unnaturally empty, distinct dream. There is also a Man. He is lying behind her. The more his human form moves towards her, the tighter he sticks to her backside, the stronger anxiety shimmers in her head and move of her limbs is more rapid. The Night is ending. The Moon is still shining in her Hole. He wipes all the lumens of the Light that have poured out of her.
autoportrait | july 2020
