Two hundred and seven words. 20
he became a slave to the sculpted moon, the pared and crafted face that navigated the rooftops, surveillant of her and her friends (whom she denominated Cossack, Kickapoo…), with whom she cappuccino’d and used the cups and cruet and odd jealous coins in a reimagination of Waterloo, an endless debate on any demonstrable subject, an ad hoc game of chess (“Is that plate a knight or a bishop?”), an exercise in obsessive compulsive symmetry, much to the complete chagrin of the manager of the tea shop; thus, by stages, she dipped into a phoney incarnation doomed to be her quotidian – it had other attendant stuff, issues, matters, a culture that held it – along with her work, in which figures danced to an unheard music, arcane bells and whistles, drumbeats a contra tiempo to her heart and to her taconeo as she walked from the carpark, lickety-spit in kitten heels and skirt, the damnable notes and their dynamics piled up during the hours of her rest and neglect making a cacophony of quarter-notes in a decimal scale from which she had to unpick order and beauty whilst sucking the blunt end of a pen, holding her breath, hunched; meanwhile, outside, the watcher in the sky sat its guard
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