She paints herself with ink. Up her arms and on the back of her legs. Limbs. Ripped limbs from their sockets. She listens to loud noises that seem to make melody and waves her arms above her head with her torso moving back and forth, forth and back, sharp and quick movements that she compulsively chooses to do. The coral island is the place that we all shall rest, I’ll kiss you once for love and kiss you twice for days. I’ll hold you close for comfort. Now cut a hole in it with your penknife, and clap it to your mouth, old fellow said jack. She reaches up and grasps the book in front of her, its not the one that she looks for, but it is one that will do. Goldilocks and the three bears. There are more than three bears, there were about sixteen, or perhaps more when you venture deeper into the woods. The pharmacodynamics does not make sense. For if one plus one equals two, then how have we ended up with eight. She closes her eyes and his tentacles wrap around her tightly, slowly they wrap around her neck and before she knows it she falls into deep slumber. No. No. No. I will be there as fast as I can he replies and she looks down on to the ground afore her. She stumbles and he is not there to catch her, her spirit rises and pulls her back. Light fills the air around her and the sun shines down on rainbows from prisms. Let us lay here. Let us lay here. Let us pray here. He awaits her on the bench made of tree and the metal touches his bare skin and brings bumps on the back of his neck. Let us lay here. Let us lay here. Let us stay here and lay among the lemons. Orange, red, green, blue, white, pink, she picks a flower and wraps it around her finger. Her eye loses a globule of water and she places her finger to her face. The water wraps itself around the flower on her digit and encases it there forever. Setting hard like an icicle, never to melt. Why is it that she had it and perhaps I do not. Why do I have what I have and perhaps she does not. She types the words and the letters on the machine that makes patterns afore her eyes, he comes over and reads upon her shoulder. Perched like a small bluebird. There are messages in there to decipher, like a cryptic code of transcription. There are triangles, squares, circles, a circle cannot fit into a square and an elephant cannot fit into a cat. Triangles of pyramids and optical illusions, they are all optical illusions. Ten months and counting. And then I will see the shape that is behind that pattern. Close your eyes. Close your eyes. Close your eyes and exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Feel. Touch. Caress.   

Last night a unicorn came to me and whispered in my ear. He licked my face clean and hid kisses. His eyes are a mixture of things and again I put my pen to the screen, tapping my left foot in time with the clock that does not sit on my wrist. I watch the movies over and over again, for a glimpse of you in a far away land. Lick me clean and dance under the moon with I, me and myself. If it had been another path that you had chosen then I would be sitting next to you with child, looking at the lines on your face like the trunk of a tree, showing how many years it has been here on this plain. As I walk the bell around my neck tells that you that I am coming. As you enter me, it’s like I’ve never been touched before. Beauty stands afore me and I am consumed in those moments of candlelit darkness, you kiss every part of me and I can smell you on my fingers and taste you on my breathe. We drive through the streets and you hold me close, there are birds sitting in the backseat and we drive under the ocean to where I reside, I have lived here for five years, combing my hair with a fork and waiting to walk on water. There are shells and depths of darkness that you or I may never know. You have to let it in to let it out. She holds her nose and counts to three hundred and thirty two. She goes blue, lulu blu blue blu. That’s the moment she woke up. Fifty-eight ways to look at one thing. She collects all of the Asclepius around her and presses them in her books that, are filled with stamps and feathers. I scramble to find some leaves and vegetation; peonies can be classified by both plant growth habit and by flower type, each flower type becomes more complex in its arrangement of petals.