A famous visitor dropped by last night and left a bagful of confused fragments in my dreams. We had a party in the woods and slept under the trees with giant gerbils and dark-red foxes. Our pillows made of autumn leaves. Our covers – fallen branches.
His face is real, his voice is famous. People pay money to see him live. He would cynically represent our generation, he would criticize, mock and preach in songs and poetry. And there he was last night, quiet and transformed, covered with the dew, pine cone pieces in his honey-colored hairs.
A symbol of youth and freedom.
There were other people too, and they were spinning, their spirits above the ground, their lips touching when there was nowhere else to go. In the woods. And under the branches.
I often wonder if you dream of somebody so intensely, is that somebody may be dreaming too?
1 opmerking:
Well, who is he, girl?
By the way, this piece sounded so smooth when i was reading.. Congrats!
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