The Charm of the Absolute

A lost city in a forest dreamt all night of the Arctic. The colors were subdued – the music only a pale violet riding light atop the wind that howled annoyingly at best. The coldness was an illness, a stillness that attests to nothing and does so quite proudly. The city slept so soundly, waiting to be swallowed whole by vines before anyone found it – still echoing with whispers from its lovers and its scriptures – impossible to picture now but once beyond depiction for entirely new reasons. The city dreamt of seasons bereft of any moisture, just a lingering dry cold. The city spent so much time dreaming that it woke up old and with the sting of many hornets it was too tired to swat down. Waking up, it still remembered, though, the purple of that sound that it heard whistling through the glaciers in the last hours of light. The city never dreamt again, try as it might by saying arctic seventeen times before it went to sleep or reading up on matthew henson while the vines around it creeped a little closer – dug themselves into the lower crumbling cement fixtures and began to replace whispers with the slithering of themselves.

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~ by perfectionatrix on September 12, 2011.

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