Marinkel *'s blog/

it's a dream i have. where nothing matters anymore and all comes to me in a horn of plenty. where i just don't care anymore and all arrives. there is a bag i saw in the window. a shop window. it was blue with a leather handle and a buckle to close in front. on display alone on a black velvet background. a desire arose in the onlooker. you want me it said. but i'm just out of reach. you cannot break the window down. you must enter through the glass door with the poster for an event at montmartre and the store hours. a bell will ring, alerting the shopkeeper that you have entered, with desire in your heart. she will smile at you and you will ask, may i hold this bag in the window. you will sling it over your shoulder and admire it in the mirror. you two make the perfect pair. and you will make your calculations in your head. whether it is worth the sacrifice. but it is maybe just the dream you're after? the vision you had of the perfect bag. no, you say. i'm done dreaming. and you pull out your wallet with the broken zipper, coins rolling across the shop floor. i'm ready to live, you'll say, and walk out the shop, looking more real than ever.

i m gonna steal your story, the one you told me stroking my hair and i laughed cause you re funny when you tell stories. one after the other. you said, now it s your turn and i said, no i have none. so you asked, want another one? i mumbled a oui into your skin and another world unfolded. the last one i caught but the opening breath, alors... and faded into dreamland. but i m gonna steal your stories which are no doubt scribbled down in your notebooks somewhere, the treasured chaos you cannot access. but do you need to when they are all lined up like tin soldiers just behind your worrying forehead and those sad drooping eyes?

there was a gypsy woman and she asked the small inquiring boy to put his hand on her knee. it was made of wood. feel it, she said.

and there was a black bird, a crow, do you know what they are? it flew into the window in the middle of this drunken city. it had made it past the pigeon sentinels and it knocked against the pane. only four eyes out of fortytwo saw it, but they knew this to be a sign. what sign was it the listener asked. the teller said, either death or greatness. oh so it must mean greatness, cause you're not dead, she replied. oh who knows how long that will take, he said. so she laughed and reasoned that yes, you re not king yet either.

a sign could mean so many things.