My punishment

The pantomime

It is possible to have new stories, yes, but from these, even, we slip out, off. My mother, correct on that front, ever the runaway bunny. To let herself be body-object-study. Stone tossed dwelling within the well of the feminine, impossibly leaden. For in fact the stone was never tossed, not yet, merely that she stirred, began to spurt. It would be more curious to be tied to a tree. And the tree, to weep? Here, reaching there is only reach.