Paris stain. I wiped up the dusty stain from your mirror, which has been in the prison on the Island for five years. Now we are in the realm surround by your creations, where everything is so calm, so tender. You are lying on the floor with your beloved, captivated; singing: Mysteriesby Beth Gibbons. The clock keeps ticking, Le temps passe, sans le son. We are counting down til our death, no yesterday, no tomorrow, only this hour. Adieu, ma petite. You whisper softly. I recite Jean Cocteau's poems that my tears are shimmering from my gaze, surrender myself to l'Amour:
"Un coup de couteau vaut bien une rose.
Lassie-moi te tuer lentement,
Expertement; votre amant
En morte vous métamorphose,
Vous change en bête, en encrier,
Jusqu'à vous l'entendre crier."
---Tempest of Stars by Jean Cocteau
The dreams occur at the same time as the actual (but invaribly distant) event. If it was a dream, why is it so real?
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