The quarry and donkeys. Dancing around the rim, on either side the forest grows ever on. Either side of the path you walk upon, her scent is rapidly spreading. The vision of her sex, is never ending. Beneath the chalk, the skeletons reach up from their graves. They beg to see daylight once more, to be alive and feast on the flesh of what they once used to be. Passing always, the flowers sigh as you move on by. The trees speak of love, they sing a song just like the birds. And just like the birds, they watch with anticipation. The sky above is forever, it mirrors all those yesterdays in your eyes. The dead eyes of nowhere. Somewhere in the breeze, the ghost of Jackson Pollock is drinking. His car crash is unraveling in slow motion. Impact zones and crumpled steel, the taste of hot oil spilling onto the earth. His body coming back to life and dripping blood no more, his hands soon splash paint upon the canvas. Triumphantly, regrettably. Energy made visible. The secret self. Monsters and natural evil. The quarry is constant, as are the donkeys as they boil in the town below. Donkeys always drowning, always painted so cheaply. Attracting nothing but insects and flies. They have nothing on the flowers, for their beauty is a pale imitation in comparison. Of life. And of love. Through the branches at the foot of a hill, you lose yourself in the shade of the singing trees. Her presence here is myriad. The witches have no place in these parts. It’s a holy land. It’s a dream within a dream. Crows circling above your head, the fields of corn are calling to you from far away. You can see her walking through them, a smile playing across her lips. Kneeling down, you steady yourself as she raises her hands and shouts your name. Pushing your fingers into the sand and stone, you feel the history of the place pumping through your veins. The memories and traces of where she’s been, flowing through your heart. Shaking, salivating. The perfect drug. Hands upon thighs, always spreading. Teeth sinking in, always feeding. Dazzling and breathless. To consume. To consummate. The true dance. Electricity, shooting through your spine. Energy flooding out of you. Rivers boiling, evaporating and swirling all about her. Form is rendered meaningless. All is without shape. Sensation, pleasure. At the speed of light, pulsating. The universe, bursting apart. Rupturing. Hands clenched as the colours around you blur, your body dissolves. You are ethereal now, just like her. Beyond the soft machines, beyond the cage of flesh and beauty, everything shines. Weightless, timeless and moving invisibly. Through the boundaries of what is known, the two of you burst into the unknown. A maelstrom of shooting stars. The brightest by far.