She squats in the attic of deserted music store. A world of mildewed record covers, warping vinyl, faded posters and yellow plastic 45 record centres. The river lapping at the front door; decay knocking at the back

She loves the colour green; the feel of chiffon against her skin. It makes a music all it’s own in rustles, and sighs, and crinkles.

She cranks up the hi-fi, and dances for no-one in her latest thrift shop find — green cons. Slithering like a snake; twisting upward like a vine; lily tucked behind her ear. She is fluid, she is motion, she is music.

Loses her green corded dream catcher, with the turquoise centre, on an adventure to free caged birds in the market square.

Dreams, set to show tunes and death-mental music, are images of post cards packed in19th century steamer trunks, that dance away in the night.

She is Music. She will dance away too.

 

Inspired by Mindlovemisery’s Writing Prompt Collage #132

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  @ my frilly Freudian slip

 

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