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
The writing of Helaena C Moon
Out of the silences that I have trudged through. Out of the nights as thick as sin. I have come to you, with my shades of blue, searching for reprieve in the silk of your skin.