I LIVE TO DREAM AGAIN
The gods knew he needed a party.
A party in which he was not himself. It was the best kind of party, Toro thought, because in it he could be the strange gilded man with horns of fabric and dripping jewels, filigree twisting into a soldier’s breastplate into silken shimmering fabric into the white shine of his shaven neck. He looked dashing, must have, because everyone looked at him at least once. If you weren’t worth looking at, you didn’t get looked at. Such is the way of things.
He felt very self absorbed on this particular evening, and oh-so-proud was he, floating between the fabric walls and dancing through the dreamers’ music. The white stallion thinks perhaps there are one thousand performers and each in a different corner of the palace, but then there is a drink here and a drink there and he hardly thinks at all. Floating in the headspace of hot-air honeysuckle and whatever delightful thing sloshed in this latest flute, it was of no surprise that he stumbled into a fellow partygoer unawares. ”Oh, sorry,” he mumbled.
@Isra Rose Pogonias Dream Again
"What I say,"
What I think,
