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2001-09-07 || 12:20 p.m. || 5 || it was full of empty spaces, warped and puckered and swollen from the highway cutting through straight like a scar. seeping old blood black and thick and smelling of tar. there were bones. memories of fur and calloused paws and tendon. crows carried the warm parts away. the soft parts. clenched in claw carried long distances. atop telephone poles. at the base of road signs. jaw bone crunching under tires, ghosts with four feet dancing in headlights. we are in a shuttle. the wind comes in to pull our hair and find hiding spots in the folds of our dresses only if we want it to. we are going too fast to notice the heat. and death. and speed at which we are travelling. there have been no words for hours now. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |