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My soul is trapped in an ice cube. The dream is so cold I wake up shivering. There is a hand on my thigh. My thigh is a hand or a piece of flesh. I cut it out of the picture and something bleeds and my blood freezes. That's how cold it is. My breath floats somewhere above my solitary heater after you've walked out, walked on. I'm still alive, I'm still breathing but yes, my soul is trapped in an ice cube.



I pick up the atlas and look for the Equator. Somewhere warm and tropical to sun myself. Does it really matter where? The Republic of Lost Loves, where split couples gather to comfort each other. But it doesn't exist on any map, at least not in this atlas. I've known all along that love is an endangered species, and that you should hold your lover tight, as tight as can be, the way chimps hold their babies to their hairy bodies. I will most likely cry right now. And it will be the warmest rain I've ever felt on my face.



There is nothing left after the cold and warmth but lukewarm. So. I am officially one of those people who walk into hypermarkets or banks and queue up or don't get a joke or don't laugh or smile but somewhere in between: a laughile, an idiot, she doesn't get it, it is obvious she has a problem. Hug a homeless person, kiss him. Lay your heart, your thoughts down on the table for anyone who will listen. Anyone. Let's see: Ace of Hearts, Queen of Spades. The homeless person asks if I'd like to play cards. My heart is already getting warmer, it's thawing.


words: Nora Nadjarian, Cyprus (betty boop inspired)
image: 'You are a supernova' - Michael Brandonisio, NYC (at Otoliths)


another dream sequence: Of Places to Go (#20)


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BluePrintReview - issue 24 - micro cosmos