a man (friend) is sitting on top of a high cliff. Lookig down from it he might see its chalkish face. He is conversing with a woman (friend) who is hovering in the air tryin to talk with him.
He begins to talk i don’t catch, or at least can’ remember what he actually says nut after his initial phrase he jumps. He plunges for ages and ages before hitting the bluish waters below. At first my worry is that the depth will be too little too absorb his fall. Then he surfaces and continues with his next phrase. A vivid break in what is linguistically a continuous sentence.
A bird is lying o its back on the sill of a house, indoors. The name that i’d attach to it would be thrush, but it’s almost certainly not ornithologically accurate, unless of course I’ve simply not seen this size or kind of thrush before. Anyway, it’s on its back and its ribs are exposed and painted in gold and sundust yellow and jade green and black. It must be a dead or ornamental bird. It could be metal and yet its talons are smokning. They are smoking and might have been on fire but now burnt down. I wince from the torture. Perhaps though it is a scenting bird and these smoking talons act for incense sticks. At any rate the lurid eye, sad eye on its face opens and blinks. Only at that moment do I realise and acknowledge with horror that this bird is alive and in terrifying pain.