Moved by what? Moved by not all that much. Carved and curving archways leading off to large, dim rooms made of dark mystery. It is sexy and vague like a rhyming phrase about warm peaches over-ripe and uneaten. A moment just missed: all sweetness built up but rotted, had by none and now, wanted by none too. Is it sex, then? Nah.. nope not quite. But, still, the sight of a new bruise on a thigh, when the skirt moves to show. Speculative things, temporary and more often, things not had, not known, not really. Dim rooms and echoing corridors. Voices in the distance, muffled. This is how it feels to sit and think and watch thoughts, sometimes at least when she has slowed down a little. Other people speak of thoughts as clouds- as if the mind were a wide flat sky and thoughts were round or wispy sheep shapes, ambling across a blue meadow. Spose of course that they could be stormy things too- of course, they are, often. Seeding out of nothing but dense and invisible unknown. Sure. But her thoughts were not clouds; they were corridors, rooms, drawers, doors, shadows and shapes, stairways and cupboards, and again more doors, ever smaller and more secret ones. Interior things but yet wider than the sky somehow. Because the sky was big sure, but it had edges. You had to turn your body to move to find the edges of the sky but even then they didn't really change much. When she travelled inside there was no such edge, no such ending. Always another door to open, another room to step into, and into again. Sometimes a window, sometimes a very big room. Mostly the houses were spacious in a way the sky could not be. Maybe this said something of her, her rooms and draws. But whatever they said could not be understood by her, now, never. She pictured a door which she had no desire to open.
