(no subject)
“When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them, they show us the state of our decay.”
Monday, 3 May, afternoon
The Carnival
It has been some time since I wore this little child's body, a pretty empty vessel. I find some relief in it, the shell of it like a vase. Its flesh does not tug at me so. Inside the body there is a coolness like clear water. It wears a prairie dress, clearly made at home, and scuffed brown leather shoes with tarnished buckles. Its knees are scraped and its hair tousled. It walks out to the carnival and buys a caramel apple so its face is soon smeared with sugar. It is in all ways a sweet looking thing, and I remember its casual cruelty to the priest Laurence and smile to myself. It skips through the carnival, half-eaten apple in hand, and I look out for those who can be hurt by truths.
[OPEN]
Monday, 3 May, afternoon
The Carnival
It has been some time since I wore this little child's body, a pretty empty vessel. I find some relief in it, the shell of it like a vase. Its flesh does not tug at me so. Inside the body there is a coolness like clear water. It wears a prairie dress, clearly made at home, and scuffed brown leather shoes with tarnished buckles. Its knees are scraped and its hair tousled. It walks out to the carnival and buys a caramel apple so its face is soon smeared with sugar. It is in all ways a sweet looking thing, and I remember its casual cruelty to the priest Laurence and smile to myself. It skips through the carnival, half-eaten apple in hand, and I look out for those who can be hurt by truths.
[OPEN]