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Who Knows.
May. 10th, 2010 11:53 amToo bad for you, world, that you are prone to my huge images.
Cynthia fell in love with a man made of ice who climbed in her window one dusk. She lived in a snow cabin so one might suppose she was seeing ice people all the time, but she wasn't. The bad thing about loving ice people, however, is that sometimes they turn you to ice. Cynthia found the process of turning to ice rather painful and frostbitten, but on the whole she preferred to turn to ice than not to. Her blue fingertips stung, and she smiled, and after three nights with him, she was an ice woman.
The man she loved went away, or perhaps he splintered into a million pieces on her floor. It's hard to tell or even care when you're frozen, yourself. He had probably been gone a very long time, maybe a thousand years, when her heart beat once, and twice, and again. It beat until she was limber again. She almost felt a feeling, or she felt a part of one. The slate roof of her snow cabin had long since collapsed, so she seeped out from under it.
There was no snow, only a meadow. Blades of grass picked her up and dripped her down to the bottom of a dale where green foxtails grew. She fell into the earth, molecule by molecule, and sated the foxtail roots. They drew her up and up until she saw the world from the inside of thousands of frondy leaves. The sun made vitrine windows of them, and they were lime in the morning, emerald midday, olivine at night.
Cynthia fell in love with a man made of ice who climbed in her window one dusk. She lived in a snow cabin so one might suppose she was seeing ice people all the time, but she wasn't. The bad thing about loving ice people, however, is that sometimes they turn you to ice. Cynthia found the process of turning to ice rather painful and frostbitten, but on the whole she preferred to turn to ice than not to. Her blue fingertips stung, and she smiled, and after three nights with him, she was an ice woman.
The man she loved went away, or perhaps he splintered into a million pieces on her floor. It's hard to tell or even care when you're frozen, yourself. He had probably been gone a very long time, maybe a thousand years, when her heart beat once, and twice, and again. It beat until she was limber again. She almost felt a feeling, or she felt a part of one. The slate roof of her snow cabin had long since collapsed, so she seeped out from under it.
There was no snow, only a meadow. Blades of grass picked her up and dripped her down to the bottom of a dale where green foxtails grew. She fell into the earth, molecule by molecule, and sated the foxtail roots. They drew her up and up until she saw the world from the inside of thousands of frondy leaves. The sun made vitrine windows of them, and they were lime in the morning, emerald midday, olivine at night.
