aries woman, the book said...
the southern cross is reassuringly still to be found just four lengths of an imaginary line away from the true south.
after the second play of the week, the girl walks along a dark road, heels clicking on the pavement, skirt floating in the calm breeze. a story is told about another heel, in another pavement. this will be our little secret, she says, joining in the joy of walking around forbidden times and places.
cockroaches scuttle away on the kitchen work-top, antennas betraying their owners relaxing behind the useless trap. a taxi is called, a bottle of wine fetched, locks locked and double-locked.
shooting starts are not the same as falling ones, he says. what is the difference? which kind am i? when will i find out?
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