The actors mill about the party saying rhubarb because other words do not sound like conversation. In the kitchen, always, one who's just discovered beauty, his mouth full of whiskey and strawberries. He practices the texture of her hair with his tongue; in her, five billion electrons pop their atoms. Rhubarb in electromagnetic loops, rhubarb, rhubarb, the din increases.
Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon
pretty's just armor something else to wear like a dress or a name not magic like skin apparel apparent apparently repellant pretty don't draw flies like honey we just pretend it does skin is what draws you don't believe me just think skin flick the winter sky is not a skin you might fly right out past it but pretty makes an atmosphere it's hard to get back in one hitch one weak O ring and you are that white dense puff of pinkish smoke too thick for cloud trailers swerving off in opposite directions someone not coming home you believed lifting off you were bound somewhere boundless you will never be that pretty again