cygnus olor

dear diary, le circque de soir. where anything could happen. act 1: in which you ask me of what i am thinking and in which i reply (in the shape of a howl or whisper, after dragging myself across a draughty hotel room, the highway, exhibit a: a juvenile glare by the bedside, exhibit b: lolita fingering the frilly lace of our curtains): my mind is a container of humid air, an enclosed archive tapered by images of vanishing swans, my mind is a abandoned photo booth adorned with torn out sheets of music, cut out newspaper articles, headlines before close ups: the brittle curve of a proud neck, the nape at the end of a long winding road sucked into shadow, a sinister minefield, an arched backbone reaching for the highlands. my mind observed under northern lights: a black car with toned windows speeding over a glaciated lake, suddenly spinning out of control, piercing through the ice. my mind is a summer snowfall and abyssal nights, paintings of dying swans scattered over the tundra. my mind is a cave of icicles, a hoard of deer moving like lightning, white birds caught in a sea of broken glass - feathers, twisted bodies, the feeling of taking flight with frozen wings. my mind is a temple for dying snow and falling swans, my mind is specks of stardust and every heart beat eternalised, my mind is how the sun manages to rise every morning, how hard it can be to keep from melting. (a faint smile as the lights fade out) act 2: (inside the white cube) a solitary person sprawled a the floor of a white palace, 1. left ear firmly pressed against echoes and vibrations, 2. right ear listening to the voices of the concrete walls. a group of spectators leaning against the fiber glass, pressing dirty fingers against the television screen, smudging their own perception and from serenity a swift motion: long strands of silver hair shooting out to carelessly brush the monster's cheeks the ceiling mirroring the floor mirroring the ceiling and the sprawled the sprawled solitary spider for everyone to touch and your reflection, your face glued to every surface the distastefully depraved madame d'amour, the silent voyeurs with clouds of silver hair, long strands of silver hair shooting out to stroke your eyes, the chin of your reflection, thin silver arms slithering out from every opening, tracing the outlines of your portrait, silver hands woven into the pair of miniature silk gloves resting on the crown of a grown child's head, a pearly white dove taking flight off an old man's shoulder.

act 3: (pitch black, voice-over) and all that you took has been replaced, what was left cemented in the skyline, you are no one.