Into Hands

They fell into my hands, apple-round. Soft and smelling faintly of sweet curry, the stuff in my hands reminded me of the fluff under my bed. It was free and barely conforming to the idea of fixed matter. A newborn dreams usually like that - finding pleasure in thoughts of light, color, and sound. The simplicity. Without a world to know, there are no boundaries on creation.

A cat's eyes are trapped on the paper of my desk. Beautiful symmetry, they conform to one another and yet no other. Fronting black eyeliner, who could blame Cleopatra for the paint she smeared on her face in honest imitation. It's to draw you in, accentuate the black iris and the pointed corners. Draw you in beyond the emerald sea - past a land beyond all walls. The magic of a cat's eyes trapped on the paper of my desk.