We dream without memory, in such a way that the dream of any particular night is no doubt a fragment of a response to an immemorial dying, barred by desire’s repetitiousness. There is no stop, there is no interval between dreaming and waking Maurice Blanchot
Helaena C Moon writing
Underneath the skin. Somewhere shrouded in my blood. An arcane of my bones. Is where you are hidden. Where you swing and tango, with the molecules of my being. And wickedly haunt and mock my solitude.