|Le Monde Parfait.
||[Jan. 20th, 2015|05:17 pm]
Oui, mon enfant - le monde parfait. Je sais.|
Chalk will fill the air, it is gently falling snow caught in the evening sunlight. Soft creaking, the yeilding sounds of netting, of leather, of stressed metal trusses flexing, rope through a pulley, and the folding embrace of a cushioned mat will set precussion to the string-solo of legs whipping through the air, swooping at fierce velocity, push, pull, push, pull. Swing. Every breath, every sound, perfect. La repetition du cirque.
Warm sounds, hot skin that threatens to tear in two, adrenaline sharpened senses, the endorphin rush. The rig sounds like a mandolin, a flute, a stretched-leather drum. Push, pull, push, pull. Parfait.