Post Tempest The most beautiful clear day, a milky blue sky, as if everything has been washed twice and has come out gleaming, beaming. And the night before was only a dream of a Tempest - a dream in which one was spirited away to a fairie court, where one drank champagne and spoke in loud earnest tones and was carassed by emminent figures who said such pretty things. There was a perfect green dress and a pair of lovely, if not very comfortable, silver-white shoes. It was just as well there was no dancing. Did you know, there is a person or god or amorphous being who controls time with a pocket watch? When it pleases him, he winds it so that the hours pass by in a blurred flash. And the Tempest never really lasts, and you wake up... strangely empty, quite stupid and slow. If asked, one would say that a wonderful time was had, when in fact, one doubts that it was real at all.

Labels: art

  ¶ 2:11 PM