March 20th, 2007
The little Ghost Boy in a big grey forest.
He never turns around and he never stops moving.
He has so many arrows, but no animals to shoot. So he fires into trees. The forest is everywhere quilled with his little sharp flags.
And in the morning his quiver is refilled with 20 more.
He has a purple potion of pale, milky liquid, and he’ll never, ever drink it.
And he has a little powdery skull he can crush between his fingers. He knows when he pinches it, everything will go black. His fingers never stop itching.
Lastly, his green chalice, empty. He wants to collect something in it: rain, blood. But the weather never changes here and nothing’s around to let a drop of itself. He leaves it in disgust sometimes on a tree stump, by the side of the path, sometimes behind a rock. But he always finds it days later, just as he’d left it, green-winking in the orange-halflight of the forest, and he always picks it up again.
Here’s the double doors, spreading like a fan, like a hole between eyes.