Thank you, I say, mermaid. I felt like a tympani tingle. Why did I feel a fish depositing me hyarh? Twar dare massen gentle. Your hair is aury. New I gnaw. Leminy touch the snare of your finny finfin. Did we really get hereBreathe the salzy, yen. Shake my chin, way then in. This dizzyfunction is wankeling and florious. Tere these lines I’m loogying at, there so cool! Fire and phosfor, zagging like city rabbits, making the same bizarre and invisible pitch noises, pfing they hit something and sparks ferkle selvagily, erfer next they instantly recooing their bizukiness, ferware I guess, they’re not lines, not always. You really get uhu quick they wing.
Yet innenmitten tutty the glee of singing and fun, I feel bedrift. I steered into a mirror and glimpsed the illusion, yikey. Enter tutti the whilen you feel completely very fairy confortabel. It’s like the grandest, nicest barca lounjer efeu. Lapping wassers, tinkling jazz bands, tables with white linens and a martini, vermouth like mango bluten, the breath, the breath of this air finnegening hunnem mint in clouds.
Abba, zumting bee stiching innen minen seiten, wehing, otter ding needling meen zhin. Barca arca, friendly hund, you can say hi. I went to Woodstock. I finded the ticket inne mein pukhet. Darfur I kennen de vergangen went, high I.
Did I drink? Harkey, the drums of rums swirled beneath gladiator belts and the lactical way splashed like lunical nixony fun. Suspect the bing taint ufer, ninny weight whey. Ser est este mailand, matter equals mc query, click, splash in my nostril, sneeze in the sand like silk. Youch, I’m lying here in autre dingen auk. Hut de – seems ter be driftweed and sea holzy. Silken strands, far green lichen the curler the inverse of particles the upperside of Mars, caress my cheek. Driftpieces puke my neck. Consider this. She’s left. Presicely, she willn’y return. Herk, my stomach hurts from the drink. I liked the champagne. It came with toast. Tiny bubbles twiller vers le ceil, then they continue, higher, in de nuveles, lemon and chalk. My head feilt clear, I wish I could move bitter. It’s slew Harky. Witter these sheets? It’s fluttery’n I hear the flapping, the tuning.
I feel like an idiot. It’s timing, and the utter lack of connection with what popular people navigate. I’m crashed here in flotsam and jetsons, I have trouble rising, lifting. Still these billowing sheets make it better, yarh. If I could just – there, a view, that’s it.
Silt it’s hazy, sand lilting. I hear a tropical bird, the fronds swishing. Green trickles around me, probably the leftover particles and waves. I wake and think.
The waves of water riffled, in cocusnuts wind quinty.
Windows wide, that’s everything. Sun ripples in, combined with air and sandsaltair and the blue, powdergreenblue of this sand.
(From Les Anneés, Emilie 2)