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The fairy's dress rustled as she turned. human women dressed like flowers, layers of petals around a mortal, rotting core.
-Cornelia Funke
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The Fairy's Dress Rustled As She Turned.

Cornelia Funke
The fairy's dress rustled as she turned. human women dressed like flowers, layers of petals around a mortal, rotting core.
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Flower Dresses Rotting

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The present flowed by them like a stream. the tree rustled. it had made music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but its song was of the moment. the moment had passed. the tree rustled again. their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life. life passed. the tree rustled again.
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So i should be aware of the dangers of self-consciousness, but at the same time, i’ll be plowing through the fog of all these echoes, plowing through mixed metaphors, noise, and will try to show the core, which is still there, as a core, and is valid, despite the fog. the core is the core is the core. there is always the core, that can’t be articulated. only caricatured.
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She comes to me when she wants to be fed. and after i feed her -- guess what -- she's off to wherever she wants to be in the house, until the next time she gets hungry. she's smart enough to know she can't feed herself. she's actually a very smart cat. she gets loved. she gets adoration. she gets petted. she gets fed. and she doesn't have to do anything for it, which is why i say this cat's taught me more about women, than anything my whole life.
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I think that i've always written about things that are very personal, but initially, i coded everything. i buried everything under layers and layers and layers of code, but the signifiers of my emotionality were there for me. i knew where the magnets were, behind the gyprock, and the magnets were very powerful. i think they had to be powerful for me, otherwise the reader wouldn't have a reciprocal experience.
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