i can think of an acquired taste in attempt to soothe these fluttered nerves. some impositive forms of translating body consciousness into some kind of burlesque, dandy situations: luxurious dreams gone dry. flesh for the mind, the cells demand, dripping desire through these reminiscent pores. some pages ago, the book mentioned something unbearably green. can't really remember what it was, just that it was huge, slow, and green. (all this rain, and no grey within sight.) i can't keep track of numbers anymore. i can't really tell when it begun. for all i sense, it has always... how many omission points can we repeat in a row? is it not a sin? is it not a waste?
there is Life beyond the garden, a strenght yet to be seen. and the laughter. loud as never before.
the lake is still inviolate, white and frozen, just waiting for the heat of a certain summer.