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Friday, June 09, 2006

The bluebells in the wood - the lavender cloud of them almost toxic - you can hear the faintest of tinkling all the tiny bells gently sounding with the movement of the morning air. She's out of her tiny mind. Experiencing happiness - summer at last, sunlight on the skin, a hand to hold in the woods, Hansel to her Gretel, cleverer, with more breadcrumbs, charged with her care. But he blew it in the blue - the responsibility too great, she is too demanding, the path through the woods gets darker and more fraught with mystery. He bottles it, leaves her sleeping in the shade of a blackthorn, its white blossom covers her like a shroud. She wakes up alone. But after the initial cold hand around the heart - what? Birdsong, the bluebell scent fresher and cleaner, the path through the woods as plain as the nose on her face. She stands up, dusts off the blossom, inhales. As she walks on, she finds him, hanging by his ankle from a rowan tree. He smiles hopefully, cheesily, but she can't hit the compassion button. Maybe it's stuck. Too many breadcrumbs.
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