dystopian-dream-girl

 The sun was setting on the lake and scattered its last rays through Dennis' large kitchen windows. We were sitting at his table: my mother, his mother, Lena, and his sister, Linda. The kettle whistled and Dennis retrieved it and poured the boiling water into the clear-glass tea pot. We all watched as the jasmine flowers relaxed and unravelled into the water. Lena was telling us her stories. So much change has passed over her tired eyes, and yet they were still twinkling at me as she told her tales. Her memory was bursting with images, names and details in some places, yet absent and vague in others. She was born in the 1920s. She talked

she snaps her fingers and slips away into the folds of time. she slips away without ever slipping, leaving her physical body there...cradled in that infinite fraction of a fraction of a milisecond, a wrinkle with unlimited depth in a sheet with no edges. this wrinkle creases and irons itself respires in poverty and inspires in wealth all in the same instant it weaves and unravells the concept of self. even when our backs are turned an exchange occurs. we face and observe.. without ever recognizing it. relevence plays a stranger to recognition, avoiding eye contact as it passes from a to b, never knowing that all points laboured be