Canticle, santicle, panticle. Through the river and over the woods. Between thorny roses and sweet smelling sunflowers. Upon closer examination, they aren't sunflowers at all. For there is no sun. They are shadowflowers. Thriving on shadow. Perpetual moonlight. Dashing through the forest of plants. Trying to keep up with you. But you run, run, run. And I try, try, try. How do you manage?
I jump over streams and push thornwhips aside. I try to clear a log, but my foot catches in a nook. I brace myself, expecting a facefull of thorny terror and eyefulls of sand. But the impact doesn't come. I open my eyes. I'm falling, again. Tumbling, freewheeling, through an endless diamond sky. Not sky. Something. But not sky.
And everything comes crashing halt. Sans pain and ouch. How? Closed eyes on marshmallow impact open like gates. There you are. On a giant piece of canvas. Ice-skating? But paint. Somehow. Feet like bristles sweep, causing ripples of coloured liquid ice to spread. Are you painting? Qu'est-ce que vous faites? Je ne sais pas. Je veux savoir.
Over I go, stepping on rippling flower petals of reds, blues, greens, and inbetweens. Is it solid? I think. Curious eyes turn towards the horizon. You've finished this painting of silken imagery. Before astounded eyes, a box appears with a simple stroke of a bristlefoot. You step. It grows. Tall. Tall. You jump. "Wait!" I call. But you don't hit. Not even marshmallow soft splat. You fall. In, in, in, leaving rippling prisms in your wake. I climb and jump. How strange, this world is. I think of enigma-you. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
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