Into the rose garden

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It was cold and wet where I found myself. This cold humid memory kept me nurtured enough to grow out of it. My dusty nacre was ripening by the drop. Listening still, like a vivid memory I was unfolding away. This melody I was hearing is typical for the soil I saw myself standing on, they say. Rose petals from childhood memories bedded the floor. This melody was them chiming along the footsteps. I couldn’t see the feet that were supposedly orchestrating all of this, but I could well hear them – distant and familiar sounds from a different age, when Pearl was not yet a pearl, only a pregnant thought of a curious child watching a TV cartoon. Who would have thought I would end up here? growing to a memory of a melody from a warm screen. And here I am still on a screen, a chewed up and spit out thought process; more concrete than a dream but still not enough for a perfume. I have no smell but a colour to cover my shame, my lack of continuity. I felt sorry.

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