Robin’s egg blue linen cotton dyestuff and the mordants + saltflakes from Trevor’s two fingers. Exquisite; it’s the floral element it’s field violet with the robin’s egg pigment like Osti will find in the 70s is how I did the linen cotton. Is that the reason for blue nuance says a head Yes. Will it shrink Dip it in the Seine yes.
Heads exclaim, lift collar to lips and fluff a hood. Test weight. Cradle on forearms like a long child. Whilst he says. Saturation. Takes me to know bridges and streets I think and haystacks, the back of this person that. It’s panic to lie on a crate of peaches. Kind oblivescence is putting me in a box I cannot sleep. I grow a neurosis. Voices in the shuffling me say one thing Le neige fond sous un ciel bleu. Neurosis is not being adored. Neurosis is loving a ribbon not belonging to me. My care. My caring.
How I know I arrive is taking hold. I slip about the shoulders of Syfa. I cover a periapt, a garnet. I wish my recto could know this garnet and my verso our crawling in the gorse. Knowing to wish is like a neurosis. Spell turns Syfa to stone and so I. Starting somewhere about the hem I stiffen. I feel how a woman is taking measurements. I feel how I was a polygon. The scissors never hurt my neurosis. A little white pencil made divots for the neck and mind found diameter dividing by pi. Sure they can hem. Sure she can fetch me a brooch. Petrifying a cloak is like slipping in a box I just went on reflecting in robin’s egg. I’m an heirloom with all this life. Then a cold sun and Syfa moving again. Heat’s in her being beneath me and breeze in mine. I say two things. I’m an heirloom with all this life. House me in the clocktower.