An old paddock with long grown grasses.
A young girl in yellow dress plucking the wild berries of that hidden country.
The legend says it was destroyed by a fire that nobody could ever see.
A translucent blaze.
And with time, everybody left with their ovens of culture open…some sorts of slow burn is still there.
The silence echoes as if to let know the existence of the unforgiving mountains…
The weightless bliss is crowded with uprooted desires.
The young girl is running and singing and growing to be the abyss where I will find myself in sometime forward.
Later she will find herself between my teeth,
later she will be shattered with the way I kill myself everyday,
Later she will drink from my glass and smoke my cigarettes and give me the pride of a woman.
The invisible fire will start once the process of mating resurrects for the emptiest of minds and the spillage of bodies.

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Photograph: Aimee Jenaskie.