Help me, by helping yourself to my words!

[pomegranate_red]

WHO JUST UPDATED HER ENTIRE WEBSITE?
Uh, me?

New site! You know you love geocities!
Word Cuisine!Update includes, but not limited to

Comments

[pomegranate_red]

This grew. This really, really grew- long enough even for a title! Thank you.
(And a PS- could I have the song, maybe? I was afraid to ask before I finished this, for fear of being overly influenced, but if you have it, I'd like to see how far off I was from its tone.)

Posted in two comments because it's too damn big.

Someone's Idea of Paradise

Paul sleeps while the world outside is playing with the idea of soft, early colors, and in his head is where the world turns. Sunk beneath clean linen, his skin floats over blood, and his blood washes blue and slow through his veins in easy, melting tides.
Miles inside him is where the world turns. Miles inside, and miles and miles away.

The cottage is Stephen's and the summer is Paul's, and the two drift together through sweet gauzy skies and crisp air. Stephen is miles away, where the world is turning silent and swift, where he is growing great and powerful empires of the enraged and devoted. In his apartment, while the buildings outside his window topple and swerve and collapse, he pays his bills, money to charities and to schools and to his wife and his life and his children's children's children's futures, and to a mortgage far away that he's misplaced the keys to. There, it is billowing cotton curtains and open windows, doors opening onto an ocean climbing higher every year. There, it is Paul in the bed and Paul on the floor with the coffee and newspaper, Paul with the pencil, and the eraser kneaded between his lips.
There, it is light and it is air and it is the stir and rustle of the past.
Stephen signs his name, and Stephen autographs his checkbook, and Stephen turns each paid bill over on top of the others, over, and over, and over.

Paul sleeps and in his head is where the world turns. When he wakes he forgets everything but whiteness and the idea of music.
He walks barefoot in the sand and brushes the grit from his feet and then walks barefoot on the kitchen floor. He pours himself a cup of coffee. He sits on the floor and rests the newspaper on his crossed legs. He looks out at the sky and the sea and sees them trade places at the horizon, first the sky on top, then the sea floating there, over, and over, and over.

Stephen wakes in the night to the sound of his youngest son crying, and his daughter touching his shoulder and whispering this to him. He is up immediately, moving silent and swift to the next room, where he rocks his child to sleep and tells him stories and whispers soft humor into his hair, which smells like dust and clean linen and sadness. His son's crying turns to only an occasional shiver, the tears and mucus already drying against his father's neck. Here he is safe. Here the world has stopped turning.