“Once you’ve felt life in your body, you can’t go back to having been a woman that’s never carried life. The other thing is feeling something dying inside you and you’re still alive.” (Q Magazine, May 1998)
It is so murky.
Tori is underwater, her keyboards shimmering uncertainly as they refract light back up at the surface.
Light in the dark. Addicted to nicotine patches. Hooked on the cure.
Say you don’t want it, this circus we’re in, but you don’t really mean it. Take the inverse of a common theme: don’t get off the cross, but stay in the tent. Can you manage to embrace the pain and insanity? Or, will you pray for overtime – for sudden death.
Either way, you best pray that those things below where the light can reach are underwater dancers and not something more sinister.
The spark lives at the center – your pilot light. Ignition. And if that’s gone, what is left? Things fall apart; the center cannot hold. You can’t sustain life. You can’t explode.
The clock still says 6:58.
The spark blows out in a blink of the colon.