Under the shade of the Sycamore

Ink was spilled on everything. It was all ruined.
The sun had burned it into the very threads of the table cloth.

She sat beneath the shade of the sycamore with her long supple tan legs stretched out across the chair beside her. Her blue dress was short and clung loosely to her skin. The black buttons tried desperately to hold the lacy white fabric together as her chest strained against them. Thru her white rimmed sunglasses her nearly black eyes gazed with no real emotion at the remains of her sister's life's work. This mess, like all the others Izabella created was just that... created by Izabella. There was a time when she wondered why her sister craved heartache and pain like she did. She even tried, in her ignorance to help her learn to be different. But alas, the cat is always a cat.. the wombat.. always a wombat. So... she stopped really caring at all.

She stretched her arm out across the table letting her fingers with their crimson polish scoop up a blue book. Well... it was still sort of blue.. in places. The book was still a little toasty with the burned edges of the pages like the teeth of a paper dinosaur. Opening it up as she sipped her iced tea she found some of the text was still legable. On one of the pages close to the center of the book she came across a section with the heading: This Red Closet. She could still make out most of it.


I wondered today, as I woke up with the sun in my eyes, why we are still here.. wondering around on this planet. It seems that the ground surely should have fallen out from under us by now. I long to shake off my ties with this society.. this community.. this world of people breathing and moving and sweating with their greedy fingers dipped in every pot. But how? How do I do this? How do I make this possible? I hope in dreams that I will be given the answers. I pray.. hoping that God is still listening to me. But I wake up just like this every morning.. my mind filled with the sound of rushing wind breaking against the mountains of the sea. All I can grasp of the dreams that come to me in the night are moments of abandonment as I'm leaning against the black rocks of some foreign shore. The water vicious and tearing at the shore like a furious lover. The salty air rips at my clothes and hair and I have no recollection of the sun existing at all but for a weak, strained light that desperatly reaches out thru the thick blankets of the sky. My soul is alive here.. and I am finally free as the Earth beats me back against it's own walls. Is this the place that I am destined to find?
April 24 1982

Lori blinked a few times and stared at the page. This was someones diary. As she shuffled thru the pages from front to back she couldn't find a name. How curious.