The blue had swollen the shadow. Or better, had absorbed it. The suction could still be felt. Somewhere.

 

She had been running over the asphalt for some time. The ground was shinning, the humidity formed a wet skin on the ground. The surface now belonged to her body, chilling the soles of her feet, the shadows would feed off of them. The dark surfaces would come and go, with loose feet. The image of the city was reflected on that skin of the ground. That was the skin that protected the city. Fallen leafs scattered here and there. Between the city and its reflection. The leaf fish, the shape that as it fell would erase or transform an image into another. Or brought it to light. The tree had been sucked. And the independent leafs  — those things similar to fish, would lie. Erased surfaces. Lines engraved on the ground, from the reflexion of the houses. The absent lines would end in nothing but soon would become something else. There I stayed, slowly on the path. The line drawn on my waist, along my arm, and down my leg, till the ground. My gaze, my head down. My eyes following the body’s vertical line. It became dark. My shoes became jet black. And that shiny skin, a foot from my feet. A leaf spiralling around, one way and then the other. It stopped on top of that mirrored surface. The reflections covered, partly. The leafs erase areas, and cover microscopic things. From nothing a hand appears, then it becomes a bubble, from a man many men are formed. They align while more and more join in, until they occupy the whole area. And it gets dark. Is it a miniature thing or only just a peak at a microscope? Maybe it was something stored in the skin that came to light now, in the shape of spiral engravings of fish? The leafs swing from the tree to me. Over me. There are also lines inscribed around me. Lines erased with a rubber, everything becomes white around me, and also part of my white body. The leaf that floated drew lines. My hands don’t seem to belong to that place. They know that something has been erased. I bring together the two palms, at navel level, forming a shell and I observe two or three swinging leafs, coming from above. The lines on my hands come together, accompanying the movement of the falling leafs – the leaf fish with no properties of their own. On my shell. The rubber erases the drawing of the log and a part of the hands. Suddenly a lot of light, in the middle of darkness. And over the leaf, the shadow.                 

 

Those aerial spaces that centrifuged memories, would intertwine with the void. The bubbles functioned as magnifiers. Already by their shapes  – or beyond their shapes. Bubbles in the brain as self-observatories. Its space, the distance to observe. And breathe the silence.    

 

The legs, green of moss. It had stuck to her legs and that rug could barely be told apart from her body. Till above the knees, the skin covered in moss. It matched the ground of the forest and it seemed confortable. There were those stones. Gigantic. That were not what they seemed. Surely not. She scratched her body on an enormous fissure. The moss – a malleable and juicy fur, greenish-grey. Then there was that well, which curled up over there in the depths. Above, the light. Sucked. The way down, paved. The colour crayons displayed by order of their size, colour leads, wrapped in oak. Wonderful. Different sizes. Even if she tried to sharpen them after use, she couldn’t always make it. But sometimes she could be sharpening the pencils days on end. Each pencil was capable of drawing an immense line, all of them could certainly be enough to go around infinite mountains. Sometimes the line is lighter, other times thinner, sometimes stronger, sometimes almost unintelligible and after that again, and simply, there.
Was it that way that the moss started to appear in her body and become part of her skin? While fully floating in that green. To belong to that super-subaquatic silent life. Or to live in the sea as a subaquatic-tronaut. But not in the lake or river. That seemed too monochromatic to her. And sombre.

 

In truth, she was there in passing, absorbing the impressions, to take them with her in the pockets of her trousers. And also implement them in crayons, in some way. There it was. A piece of paper. DIN A4. Still empty. And then some lines. A pencil. A hard and moderate area. Impenetrable. Besides a barely palpable lightness. A leaf touches the cheekbone. A micro-moment. We could also talk about skin but it would be inappropriate. Clinging to something mossy. With the sub-face of the surface of the paper. And her hands – the wrinkles of the skin that hold the pen. The eyes get worse. The magnifying glasses reveal to her eyes every detail. And again the light. Her body. The moss. The sheet of paper. And time.