I loved and I hate. She flies with her own wings.
I want to colour the dots. Big, gaping holes, in their anonimity they'd be happy. Therefore I take a felt tip pen and make diamonds and flowers with holes as the centre and at the edges and all around. Myopia is a pre-requisite to appreciate my wet ink art. From far away I see a hazy figure- Monet could have painted him... the grey and the black and other black blue dots making sense from a distance in a drizzle of white.
I figured out a pattern yesterday, or the day before or a year ago (I forget when). It went something like Henry VIII's wives : Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived.
Sometimes, when it's dark, I practice waiting. When it's light it becomes like Penelope's burial shroud for Laertes, a little bit of which is unravelled every day but without suitors to prompt. I have given it the dawn of a certain day and the dusk of others and the sky is black all the time for all those who didn't know.
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