"I desire to play Trickster or Threshold Guardian," Aisling whispers to her shapeshifting mourning guest.
Curled into the dark, reading together, within her catacomb library replete with literary longings. Is each lover a story, each story a lover? A mirage? A trickling treat, a treat that trickles away, a vagary of fragrant, frequently dissolving memories distill into absence, or was it Absinthe? Did Aisling recall how to embody Alchemical Recipes, how to become the dance that transform haiku into a home. He offers her a pineal gland that remembers ecstasy a "Trick?"
"I'd rather play Trickster and Threshold Guardian," she whispers conjuring or being conjured by a Quicksilver Flash.
submitted at 9:42pm
14 November 2010
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