the ingenue is paralyzed inside the temporality of springtime

so the air is punched out of the soul it ruptures. this is a result of the utter lack of connection to any reality that does not involve a dogwood budding. so the soul sewn into the stomach lining the dress. she has to stick to her guns. she isn’t going to wear pants. even if it’s winter well the ingenue does not exist in winter it must be spring she requires spring she is inside of spring outside of it she will die. trilobites don’t live particularly long they have been taken from their temporality, they have been put into another, inside of which they are an incompatible Other. so the ingenue like a pet she must be kept in a hothouse not a garden flower. a gardener wouldn’t even know how to clip her thorns. a gardener wouldn’t know how to make her grow. only in the balm, only in the slipped star shivering down like a halo from the special. the lighting designer knows how to make her glow. so the ingenue glows like a fever. inside of the dream she manages winter. a callus rubbed off the shin because tights, because a cage has to be a place in which she can construct a hide by which a skin by which an emulsion to print a mimic of the face which captivates. loosed from forever there have been errors before. the great tragedy of the princess is that someone let her sleep too long.

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