She looks down

At the other end of the rainbow in violet without her spectacles and it’s hazy as it has always been from the beginning of an egg till the end of the process of boiling it hardening the yoke soaked in oil of mustard seeds ripe with tangy bitterness of spice aftershave lotion in a red bottle with a turn-screw cap with little lines drawn on it as she contemplates rebirth as a fairy or a dragonfly or a dragon spitting fire into little pots of glass and green in the middle of an open lawn of nothingness where snakes live and lie about eggs laying day-in and day-out of a baby that goes out into the city carrying a bottle with a rubber nipple of the future in personal issues of journals on planes of resurrection when connected to the bigger network of being awake and one with all life thinking blinking winking like a little electric bulb of a summer night born out of a nostalgic coincidence of herbal spicy tea and biscuits on the shiny metallic lines of an electronic circuit shaking hands with protons and neutrons making up for the weight of the waiting time mass of Sunday early mornings on hardboard tables to trace thin lines of black ink around maps of imaginary lands like the house next door or the neighbouring village full of goats and sheep and so full of wool where no one ever feels cold so full of warmth and there doesn’t exist a winter even of an unexpected microscopic moment behind windowpanes