Thoughts, words, visions frail as the thinner of the heels. A column by M.me Red.
It wasn't the rumbling of a plane. It was the buzzing of a bug hovering behind my ear. Smaller than a fly, the bug wandered before my eyes for a bit, then disappeared in a corner of the dark room. On the white, round table that reflects the light from the ceiling there is a glass ashtray. Inside it a thin cigarette, smudged with lipstick, burns away. On the edge of the table there is a pear shaped wine bottle; on the label is a blonde woman with some grape in her hand, and she's filling her mouth with it. Even the trembling surface of the wine inside the glass reflects the red light from the ceiling. The table's legs disappear in the thick rug. Before me is a huge mirror. The woman seated seated in front of it has her back covered in sweat. (Murakami Ryū, Almost Transparent Blue, incipit).
Thoughts, words, visions, fragile as the thinnest heel. A column by M.me Red.