Dali Driven

"Curls... Of spring passion? Lacerations of decadence? coiled in ringlets at the nape of her neck- light wrapped in strands iridescent and bent toward her silhouette's kiss. Shadows on a match box painting absorbing the skin and silk shed cloth." Frozen air movement shakes me awake as another museum goer brushes by my sleeve in an attempt to read the description... (I am nose close...) Tremendously, I pull myself away to the Hallucinations of a Toreador pulling the scope out on my looking glass, for one is finely tuned, painted with the single hair of a wishing bow... and one is the size of my heart, unraveled and sky scraped, and yet remarkably blurred to initial understanding. I toss aside propriety and sit down on the ground, Indian style, in front of grandeur- a mist of streaming people dissipating my vision of the surreptitious melting clocks, oozing time all over the floor, soaking my favorite shoes... And so I pass the afternoon alive, briefly breathing in the dusty air and DNA of genius.