And nothing would ever change and what changes came would never touch her adultness, her perfect preoccupation with petty extravagances and indulgences. Filling lakes and ponds with poison rubbish. She could be an adult here, splashing water on to pretty flowers, dipping fingers into dreaming fountains, damming up rivers and devouring trees. Worries dwindled, the future threatened no alteration to what was and one could easily believe that what was would always be.
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It was free to float and then sing across hungry winds, and comfort was a most natural thing, reasonable, a proper state of being. Her untethered will recalled no aching joints, no crusting flies upon split, raw lips no blackened, lacerated feet.
She could swim through the cool language of loss, rising to touch precious surfaces, diving into midnight depths where broken thoughts fluttered down, where the floor fashioned vast, intricate tales. Free to make beauty with a host of beautiful, terrible words.
Thread of food, knots of promise, the countless strands of salvation-and see all the bits and pieces falling off, left in its wake, and down and down low and lower still, to eat and pick at leather skin, pluck the brightness from eyes. And look down wheeling round and round the crawling, dying worm far below, that red, scorched string winking with dull motion. She could wing high and higher still, to ride the fuzzy backs of capemoths, or the feathered tips of vultures’ wings.