They once fought, the features: eye against eye, lip against nose, cheek against baby chin... But one day, they all came together.  For a while the face smiled, even beamed (or at least seemed to), but it aged fast. Lines of worry began to crease its once infantile skin - and before long, its mouth was open, bawling with screams unholy. Clumps of its hair were torn out, and tears rolled down its face in a tumult
Amongst this sweaty fearful sadness, a pimple rose on its cheek.  The tears would pool around this pimple...  Before long it had grown to a throbbing boil and was pulling the skin so that all the tears of the face flowed with it, or away from it.  The throb of the boil was the Rome of the face...  Micro-organisms set in, and made deep pits and furrows in the face, sinking limitless tears into their beyond.
By the time the boil was lanced, much harm was done...  In its removal, a great scar formed down the middle of the face - jagged turning, between the eyes, to one side of the nose...  Long since that time, the scar has healed,  but it will never completely fade. The face, however, has born its troubles well.  Its survival leaves it with dignity in the face of its injuries.  He may be old now, but the Grandfather is certainly, at least, a dignified man at last...

The bee works busily at the flower, skillfully gathering its nectar in a dextrous flurry.  Standing close by, is the bee-watcher, analyzing the bee’s work and sometime getting lost in the beauty of its movements.  A little way off stands the bee-watcher-watcher, marvelling at the attentiveness of the bee-watcher, but also questioning its motivations, and wondering about its other lives.  He in turn is gazed upon by the bee-watcher-watcher-watcher... And so on... But at times these watchers become so embroiled in their thoughts that they become bees themselves, and bzzz off to work upon a flower of their own... Sometimes many flowers are being harvested at the same time... But an unwatched bee can be a dangerous thing...

Tearing, finally and carefully, through the last layer of her endothelium, he finally saw inside her eyes...

But there was no blackness that poured out, only the light of a million galaxies.

He knew that already, of course, but he had to be certain...

When the glove was full, it could climb walls, pluck the apple out of reach, dance with the raindrops, bring dead flowers back to life, lift the moon's reflection from the sea and set it on the mantlepiece-

Now that the hand is gone, it lies limp on the bedside table, as spiders build a cobweb forest of thorns around it...

The slipper waits for Cinderella's foot to return.

and in one tiny breath, barely a sigh, he shook the Bourne of Mel to its trembling knees... He laughed, wiped away a tear, then swam in the fountain for three days.  Then he was clean.

She hated the way he was always playing with his nails.  And the way his whiskers tickled her.  And the way he always wanted to snuggle, when she wanted her space... The way he come in late at night, and expect he could just crawl into bed, or that he could spend all night out, when she wanted him there. How he'd lie in bed until evening, while she had to get up and do things.  Especially how he'd make her worry if he was gone for days.  She hated when she would give him food, and he wouldn't eat it, but would ask for food again in ten minutes.  She hated the way he would bring her gifts she really didn't want, or the way his breath would smell after he'd had them himself.  The way he'd preen himself for hours, just to leave the house, but come and lie on her when he was covered in filth - especially when she'd just cleaned her sheets.  When, if she didn't do what she wanted, he'd pretend to ignore her.  How, if she threw him out, he'd just sit outside the door as if that was where he was planning on going anyway.  The way he'd paw at her.  And especially how he'd drool on her.  And she hated how she'd forgive him, just because of the look in his eyes.  He's as bad as my cat, she thought... Except that I love my cat.

Even after she'd moved in with him, Jonas still found himself going back to her old building.  He didn't, of course, notice anything strange about this - well, not at first anyway.  Initially he'd always pop back to make sure she hadn't left anything behind, until she began to insist she most definitely had not.  Then he would regularly stop off to check if any mail for her had been delivered there, even though the land lady insisted that she would be certain to forward any that arrived.

He would make extravagant detours just to walk past the place, going to a near by florist even though there was one much closer to his house, or making excuses to see a new exhibition at the local gallery, even though it was never remarkable.  On such occasions, he'd always pray for rain as he walked by, just so he had an excuse to pop into the foyer for shelter.  One of his favourite parts was entering the building.  As he pushed past the doors and drew himself inside, he always felt a warmth rush over his body, and a tingling up his spine as he sank into the worn leather couch that sat there.

It was on one such visit that he first made acquaintance with Vadim.  An eccentric, slightly ratty little man, with shaky movements, Vadim was the janitor of the building.  Having never spoken to Vadim before, he found him exceedingly approachable.  In fact, being so regularly ignored and starved for company as he was, Vadim latched onto him in the manner of a stray dog.  In no time at all he had dragged Jonas up into his small one room cubby hole, and was pouring him a glass of cheap vodka.  They spent all night there, drinking vodka, and listening to Vadim's extensive collection of 8-track recordings of soviet propaganda.

These evenings became a regular occurrence for Jonas; the highlight of his week.  Even though his new friend spoke incessantly about his favourite topic, for which Jonas had no interest (although he quickly believed he did), and in such a quick and raspy voice - and only half in English - Jonas was ecstatic.  Mainly because Vadim was also excited to answer any of his questions about the workings of the building... and to show him around.  To get to see the insides of the building drove jonas wild... to drum on its old copper pipes, to smell the grit of the boiler room.  He had free rein to explore the backstage of his theatre, whenever he pleased.

Jonas began to lie to his girlfriend about where he was going all these evenings, as the highlight of his week became practically the highlight of his day.  As his lies got more and more imaginative, she quickly began to doubt him.  One day she followed him, to see him entering the building, and waited outside all evening, until he came out at 3am.  She was distraught.  After doing the same thing the next night,   she confronted him, but none of his explanations - not even the truth - would convince her to believe anything other than that he was seeing another girl.  She moved out the same day.

After parting upon such harsh terms (and harsh words), Jonas felt a wave of depression pass over him.  His need for comfort and security drove him back to the building.  It was only then that he realised the true nature of his obsession.  He fell into a deep hatred of himself, his madness, and how he had hurt his girlfriend.  He stopped going to the building entirely.  The pain and longing built up in him stronger than he had ever felt in his life.

The weeks wore on, and he found himself going out to bars and having foolish one night stands, to try to drive the sense of loss away.  But none of them ever satisfied him.  Every lobby he used to shelter from the rain drove him mad for desire for that worn leather couch, and every radiator reminded him only of that old boiler...

He stopped talking to girls at bars, and would simply mope in the corner swilling down cheap vodka, drawing further and further into himself.  He kept this up for what seemed like years, but was in fact only weeks.  Then one night...

"I like your hat"
"Uh, thanks..."
"Would you mind if I bought you a drink?"  Well, he was pretty broke...

Something seemed different about this girl.  Was it the way she smelt?  The way she carried herself?  Or something... deeper?  They talked and laughed late into the night, and at 2am, she dragged him, giggling into a taxi.  As they pulled up outside her building and he staggered out of the taxi, he found himself stunned sober, as his heart exploded with passion.  As they entered the foyer and his hand brushed casually against a worn leather couch, he found himself staring at this beautiful girl, and thinking only one thing... I am going to love this woman, for ever...

When you're out, in the
Middle of the sea,
Sometimes
Behind the
Creaking of the Boat, and the
Rolling of the Tide, and the
Whistling of the Wind, you can
Hear the Mermaid.

But, sometimes,
She's so faint;
You can't be sure if
She's crying, or
screaming, or
singing.

He loved the way he really wanted to punch her in the face, but never did, because he didn't want to hurt her, no matter how well the bruises would bring out her eyes...

He opens the hatch at the back of his brassed creation.  Reaching inside he fumbles for a while, until he eventually pulls out a diamond.  Was that what made it stop moving?  Even a diamond, when dropped in the workings of a clock, will stop its motion... He sits and stares at it for 57 minutes, by his watch.  Finally, he turns his back, to see the light creeping around the drapes. Instantly, its first tentacle flies into action...

For a while - in fact for a long, long while - every morning, when I walked home after work as the sun rose, she’d be singing.  Her voice ranged from dull and high to low and sweet. She’d sing songbooks from Schubert to Gershwin to songs I’d never even imagined.

Every other streetwalker was always already done for the night, either suitably employed or at least given up and gone home.

But not her.  She was always still There.  Still singing.

I called her Morning Chorus.

Then, one day, she was gone.  She didn’t even sing goodbye.  I never heard her again.

Sometimes, now and then, I think I hear her voice, but it’s never quite the same.

One glorious morning at the dawn of time (when all mornings were glorious), Eve was sitting under a tree, stroking the back of a rabbit that lay lazily in her lap.  Fruit hung ripe and succulent off all the trees, but as there was no pain or suffering in the world, Eve felt no hunger, and only ate for pleasure.  But for now, the rabbit was keeping her entertained.  As she scratched behind it’s ear and it wriggled with pleasure, unbeknownst to her, a snake was snaking through the long grass of the knoll she sat on and up to the foot of the tree.  Before it reached her, however, a small, sleek, grey wolf jumped out from behind the trees, and pounced on the snake.  Biting its head off with one strong bite, it then threw the snake into the air and swallowed it whole.

Eve was not the least bit astonished, disgusted or afraid, as she had not eaten from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, and knew nothing of brutality, pain or suffering.  Neither was she suprised or shocked when the wolf grabbed the rabbit from her lap, and tore it to pieces with its powerful claws before gulping down the still warm flesh.  She did not even move when the wolf started biting at her own two legs, alternating foot to foot, calf to calf, knee to knee, thigh to thigh.  Feeling no pain, she looking on calmly, with a unquestioning, sedated smile, as the wolf chomped past her still virginal groin.  As soon as it reached the middle of her waist (where her belly-button would of been, had she been born from the womb), it jumped up and ran off back from whence it came.

When Adam found Eve, he was not the least bit surprised to find her missing the lower half of her body.  They continued their lives on as before except that now Eve, like a Victorian side-show freak, walked around on her hands.  Of course she did not die from the injuries, as God had not punished her with mortality.  Neither did Adam and Eve regret their inability to have sex (due to her lacking hers), as they had not eaten from the tree of knowledge of good and evil.  And as they never had any children, they all lived happily, ever - and I mean ever - after.

The young girl stands by the swingset, carefully cutting the hands, ears and feet off the stuffed animals that hang from it. She says they want her to set them free.  Just around the corner are graves of children that died this day, every 50 years since the reformation...

It's dark outside tonight, even underneath the lampposts... The air is thick and muddy, as if a swamp decided to take to the breeze.  You feel you have to grit your teeth to keep from choking...