She painted fear with one color, then a few. She painted fear with her perfume. In Shalimar. Mere Joy. Resilient blends that crafted back time that would fill the space between the seen and recollective clock face. She wore angora, and the conversation went to young wool, plump wool, she relented after saying she would capture heaven as she'd drawn it freehand. She was teaching us to be afraid of how an unseen enemy might work. She coined the phrase, mastered a contrarian view. She spoke apart from dialect in shock. She said a force would change her, and the story from this point became not good. She warned of the infringement upon youth, despite the tuning of an instrument resembling a line dance. What of the enforcement will be left when we are perfect in the view of shoulder-length beatitudes? The story tries to print itself in prose. An index trying to bespeak the volatility that comes crashing in the dormitory windows where imaginary children fall from lives that do not know them.
Wind that needs translators, wind eclipsing plain speech,the way a father speaks in probabilities where parables might be
Sheila E. Murphy
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