Back to "stranger with no intentions" 1. story-part
Back to "the difference has blurred" 2. story-part
Back to "from Isabelle to you" 3. story-part
Back to "turning fluid, oily and tar black, seeping through all the cracks" 4. story-part
And I asked Isabelle if she might
let it take some time; like as in watching the crumbs trail off the
table and then spin in a wild dream cycle until
touchdown. Can we hit the bottom, she replied. Not a question. It was too
long ago since we had taken up on any questions, riddled our paths full
of stones and torn clothing. I had
watched her wash tops and bras by hand, in the small sink. Our little
apartment. When? How long ago? Too long ago makes no sense to me.
We moved on then. Or moved back, I keep
forgetting which is which and what it means after all. Isabelle kept
pieces that came to no puzzle, and
I had been dragging along throughout her little games
for many years. We were like the playback of an old broken tune. It was
time for change. But she only said;
it's time to go back home.
So we went.
This is what happened next.
Forward to "painting stars that have not come to be" 5. story-part