Legs carved from tongues sat under a crushed turtle gazelle hybrid revitalised in the middle of a cavern apartment under extraterrestrial lights to make a dark wooden table.
A crystal glass bowl assembled with insect eyes underneath the earth and polished by antediluvian hands.
Hands: small weak defenders against dust and the wicked.
The dish was centered on the hybrid’s flattened shell.
Ghosts restored unperturbed on dark soft moss couches and carpets with African lions which purred over mice and gifts. I had troubles breathing, the air was full of cinnamon and perfumes, and my eyes stung with tired pleas in the dim lights.
I wanted to sit on the moss and feel the insects living in intuitive panics run along my legs as hot breathe scented with warm sand and rotten bacteria humidified on my nose.
I wanted to feel apparition hands and dark Portuguese skin; to no longer be an observer.