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 hurricane.

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

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