Her days were of electricity. Her shaking hands, breath and legs moved her to fast lanes, rapid art, short conversations, nervous parties, red skin, one ferocious cat. She was always thirsty, always breaking into smallest fragments whether in motion or not. There were blocks of light in her blood streams clogging her, pushing her, blowing her into multiple whirlwinds of dimensions. She dreamt, she dreamt, she dreamt, then she slept to dream again. In between pauses she would run untamed, undesired, unconscious. There was always somewhere to launch into, always some place to free fall from. In her diseases, she would look to self-heal by traditions, rituals, experiments and science. She was always knitting. If it can be written, she was the virus born to break trajectories as if deliberately placed to decode the design.
Extract from ‘Tales of expansion’
Published in Gone Lawn Issue 33