when i recall l'ecoile sinister capes and flags he wore, it all comes together, memories i would rather forget. if i did the unspeakable unforgivable and un unable and quit knowing the gothic film noir danger i did not care. i knew the shadows and how creatures would dodge sudden threads of light that flash a rind of a limish color. emphasis on a shoulder, curved, just for a second, in flight. a flash of red, the source of the wind, fishermen's boots shuffling in puddles, hoots of owls and foghorns then i saw him.
his head is a thumb, this tiny man who materializes from shadows. he turns slowly and points at me. his forefinger foreshortened seems much larger than he and presses flush onto my middle eye. up until that moment, i was just watching him, placidly, thinking hmmm how odd, but then it scared me. why? i wondered, because tho a criminal of some new and unknown sort, with a thumb for a head, he was my sweetheart, my darling one (he resembles a stocky owen wilson in danny devito's body playing the lead thumb role. doe blond and fair: an innocent pink but very mean finger to whom you wouldnot rent the room, if you knew.
somehow imagery swirls throo this velvet darkness, it never ends, in morph phases one becomes the next. the words to describe it r likewise. i open my eyes and it is still the same room although i hear an echo of wings flapping
