Yesterday, I walked down the boulevard, looking for the stall where the paper cranes were sold. A woman stopped me and asked where I had come by my perfume. "A part originated in a bordello in Nice," I said, "A part came from the glory between my thighs, also." I left her hanging, waiting to say that the third ingredient was compounded of ginger and jasmine heated by a crucible swinging over a campfire. I wanted to reach out my hand and grasp -- what? Truth? Loathing? Freedom? Actually, as I pulled it back, I realized all I held was a handful of rusty bottle caps and cat's-eye marbles. She recoiled, so I said, "Look, you musn't worry. This is something that most living persons would never put a tongue to, but with this particular predilection I can not help but consider the presence of some sort of many-armed deity. After all, you came here looking for something, didn't you?" Contemplation works both ways; instead of deciding to answer or question, I threw a temper tantrum in German.

Exquisite Corpse IV by abc.f

permalink