Rachel Eckermann 5

Etienne's cigarette was puffing like a train. She was in the height of her jouissance. She had a flapper's haircut and men danced around her like hungry wolves. She always loved that heightened sexual feeling that would give her mental orgasms. She hated malaise with a passion. She hated Americans with a passion. No nuance. All straight lines leading to death. So boring. The music of Frozen Harmonics filled the air... it was narcotic. One of the guys around her disposed of her cigarette for her. It was like she was Circe and men returned to her over and over again for some strange reason that they could not define, as if they were hearing the songs of the sirens which were much too beautiful for human ears, ringing into the skies and stars, diffusing in intoxication... with no where left to go. Treading upon the stars, using the Big Dipper to churn her wine...divine emanation of the mind delirious running with the moon, spouting plants with twin faces, Janus faces... and again, turn, she loved being the center of attention and would never give that up, but she had a deep fear of being alone, alone without anyone in a dark room with her alterego interrogating her, a scene from a Dostoevsky novel in which she would have to confront the bourgeosie self, the last woman, content.... what if she could breath the silence of the night and walk upon the breasts of the dead, steal their secrets and bring it back to a world that could not care less, breathing and breathing, scintillating like the laughter of celebrities and their contempt for people, like vampires or Goddesses or Gods of a cult did they live into the very unicycle of verses, chanting chanting chanting madly, lovely the syllables of the universe about to be.