Lvice

Something leonine is stalking through the meads of summer. A giant apartment complex lurks on the edges of the suburban savanna and saliva drips from its gills. It is baked, beached and chlorinated, longing for rain or for (a) pride to come devour it whole.

In another life it was a teaming commune, an Amazon of Amazons, a multiverse of human verses where people grew tall and strong without fear. But that was long ago.

But I should therefore put these living fantasies to wrest and lay my head on some moist Austrian hillock where cotton shrouds and grass stained knees are the gifts of childhood. There is contentment writ large and full in the mist of late morning. The pyparii are turning golden on the tree stems preparing themselves for palimpsest and girls of 16 are pages to write on.