Why do the rivers flow with crimson? It's not the fruits wallowing in the waters. It's not the gore dripping in the flows. It's the sheer welter bringing all the banshees up and voicing their oracles. The air rings with the throats of brass. I feel the freshet trickles between my toes...

  It was a story of a giant and a little girl. They were sitting on a bed. He, leaned upon the hills of books, was trying to fit into a space as small as possible. He wanted to fit on her lap, to nestle his heavy head up against a thumping tiny heart without breaching it. (Didn't he know it wasn't possible?) And she, who has fit her entire life on his pillow, was calmly looking at the tangle of anguish and could not distinguish the blue of his eyes from the blue outside, on the other side of the foul window. They didn't feel the fatal peril. But giants don't sleep in the pits of the stomachs of little girls. They don't.

He is neither in time, nor in space. He is sliding the dream's clock, he's flowing together with the flowing numbers. The only measures are tingles in the fingers, little needles in the eyes, quivers in the caches. Pleasant chill of the bodies and slowly springing warmth in the temples. As if plunging in a snugly warm bath water. The waves of touch rippling the cloth. The cloth, bound in smells and colours, is waving like warm water and is covering the skin. Hiding... but rather leaving both absolutely naked. More than naked.