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
Back to the interlude; take your stormy weather along
Back to "painting stars that have not come to be" 5. story-part
Screaming, waving her arms like a mad swan fighting proudly
against the waves, Isabelle is running like pebbles down the
mountain. And I see you moving in front of my inner eye, the bud of
secrets opened, my heart beating like a pounding sky, firecrackers,
thunder and lightning.
We traded yesterday in for a dream and now the hurricane's coming
towards us on this silly little track of life. Run like crazy, her
voice in my mind. Run like the headless chicken that thinks it's a
dangerous hawk. Be stupid, be forward, never be shy. Gather all your
defenses, because you won't need them anymore once this is over.
Isabelle is shaming her legs, Isabelle is cheating the pace of the
grass in a stormy wind. Isabelle is galloping
like the stallion she'll never be. And I do nothing but wonder. What
were all those broken years, those bare bone, burdened and brittle
years we never dared to dream. In the cry of the day, we cry for
revolutions. Isabelle sings of fairy tales, but we shriek like birds,
silent black beads for eyes. Isabelle runs for her shackles, burns
paths into the ground and spins out onto the open fields like a
In the eye of the storm, the grass sings.
Without the power of her
voice, without the touch of a cracking sky, falling open upon itself
like flower petals in the rain. Isabelle would rather be wrong than
ever sing with the grass. She says the grass sings alone. Always.
She is the sunlight. Against the frame of this dream, I am nothing
but the hooves of dead horses, falling into the grass, growing from
it. My voice is long gone. I am nothing. Isabelle is all.
Forward to "the song of starfish" 7. story-part