Un goût anisé

The rotten girl sitting on a chair was reading. Eyes and words and fingers to follow the lines. The letters were clever, hiding meanings in loops. A fire in the background, a cat and a parrot fighting. The table was in wood in the dark at the back of the room. The glass was empty. Once there had been light and water. A few men. To explode from within. The importance of numerous explosions. So that the bones could matter. The girl sat on the chair. Her legs were the chair. The chair was her legs. She was thinking of time. Of the time spent on the chair spent on the floor spent hitting the walls. The time also spent walking around a city. What city. Made of stone and shit. Made of gold. The speed of the city and the loneliness of the chair. The book was the same had been the same for ever. It was all broken, a few missing pages, stains everywhere. The importance of stains. Their meaning. The passing of time. The girl was reading on a chair rotting. The fire was the memory of a fire and the table had melted. Her hair had no colour, nor had her cheeks. The bones were green. The reading went on. Like the passing of time. And the girl was drying. The rotting was over. The girl hadn't cried. Not even when her feet broke. Neither when the blood had fled. She had remained silent thinking of the chair. Remembering the book she was to read.