Home > write365. > Day 24: long-day surrealism.

Day 24: long-day surrealism.

At the age of six I wanted to be a cook. At seven I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since. (Salvador Dalí.)

and the sky roiled thickly like the whorl of a fingerprint.

the men dressed somberly, the women too, in sober tones of
neon blue. electric sashes kindled piano white. the canopy
sweated yellow and lurched downward like heavy breasts
might.

children cried asleep at the foot of the bed, faces
welted, noses bled. they all talked and chattered
like teeth, decaying in time and in heat. someone
balked at thinking of a world flatter than feet.

napoleon, his eyes were closed. he was not there. he was wrapped
in a blanket on horseback in egypt, his senses rapt by the sphinx
before him. it was a long tan canvas. a giraffe bivouacked beside
the ridge. it was on fire and it walked calmly. the horse trotted
forward and rested where the sphinx’s shadows fell, it drank from
a canteen. napoleon etched in the rock france, armée, tête d’armée,
joséphine. the only sound there was in the world was the hot static
buzz of exile. napoleon looked up.

and a thumb came down from the sky, smudging him thickly in the whorl of a fingerprint.

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