{ lorelei } ::

table of contents

{ lorelei } #00: Dance With Me
We’re moving together now, though we barely touch—for this is not the wilder dance of the tribe driven by the nothingness buried in broken pulses of a drum, it is dark and fragile and intimate, this entwining of shadows beneath a dying sky. We have not come in search of healing, or redemption. We are glass shards glittering on already open wounds, nightingales giving birth to roses.

{ lorelei } #01: Bird of Paradise
It's okay, garbage blossom girl; it's all going to be okay. Don't you know? The drums are only swells of the white gossamer-smoke hardening to crystal and a skyful of diamonds inside the cradle of your head. You are perfectly mad, and perfectly you, and oh, so perfectly alone.