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

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