Monday, August 19, 2013

Something fictional.

Not quite a somnambulist.

She sleep talked only in French because the language was beautiful. The slurs of a foreigner, of musings of a world that only existed behind the darkness of closed lids crept out of her mouth in hushed tones. Whispers nearly silent, meant exclusively for the night sky which powered her slumber.

Theses were the undocumented, elusive, intimate conversations of the mind to the moon.

La lune.

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