Snow
Moisture from
the lips of a woman whose awakenings have always been attended by strange
angels, awakening the performances of women in a large white cold room without
floors. Dirty ships float between the sleeping icebergs in the fairy tales
that overflow down her cheeks to her lips. The snow awakened and melted from
her hips which simulate the coldest moonlight and its crevices. And what can
awaken her now but the fragrance of the pines which long for her smell and
her cold hair? At the end of a road of years upon which she lies down as one
lies down forever.