This is her. It never was about a him. It’s about a her. She didn’t come this far only to come this far. This is it. A her. Scrambled & co. Mirroring back to those Californian days when mirr came back from his fishing trip and gave huggings. He never would have said that magicians are the most honest deceivers. He would have kept it real. And so we did.
Counting down to something. Like a birth that is taking place. Knowing you have been whooed and wombed for nine months, maybe just for one month longer. For we should have been born exactly those days ago. One month and counting. Down.
It all came together in one dice toss. Six. Four. Three. Three. Endings with one. It didn’t add up. Not the phone call, not the writing, not even his voice or the memory of mirr. If her head was more straight she would and could have looked ahead and wrote a small story. About a sheep in a bed, waking up after a night, and discussing a concept. Perhaps it would be about love. About tears. About misconception. About voices. About results. But not today.
When not even five minutes had passed, she foud herself remembering (or diving in) a conversation that had long gone. The line was open, but dead. It was as if Nembutal flew through un umbilical cord. Thirteen breathing days.
Oh, how we did not know who to call, because we were voiceless. Mirr? Confession sheep? Dream sheep? Who are they anyway? Why not address them all at the same time with one word and just go back to bed and sleep the day off? Or make all the feelings it into a patchwork coat that we can hang on our non existent coat rack?
We longed for simplicity. For words that sound simpler than the word actually is. The word was mäh. Potamotrygorgeous mäh.