A Filmed Encounter

She clasped the three poenies to her chest and went to sit in the library.

A land of poppies, a river of milk, the deep red dress she wore seemed to be loosely attached to her shoulders, contained and maintained there by the conscious idea of its own glissando, like an Italian glacier lake softly heated under the skin by its water music.

In a silky gesture of affection. 

The flowers were of a light green tint at first sight, on the verge of papery, next to crispy, her face was grave enough, not exactly pale, as if a ray of sunlight had touched at her port, as if something of it had pinked the exquisite carnation with its own dew point, her pupils like two deep blue gray horsemen checking on the storm, she still held the stems in her arms during her short speech, like a moving presentation of herself, all-but poignant, mastering what she would have to deliver, perfectly in control of the vibration with which she intended to carefully pack the atmosphere, without showing the whole thing off, silent hooves on the inner trail. 

Straightaway, she explained its raison d'être, said the bouquet was another expression of praise from one of her thankful student, she felt strange, как в кино, "like in a movie", and somewhat empty inside since the Russian invasion.

Maybe the key to salve her feelings for the others was to let these emotions go their way undisturbed.

To and fro, mindfully.

Almost with joy, she might say.

Happiness is a non moving warm run for the principles of life, for love. 

Her legendary gracious smile had departed, not vanished, an absentee for the most part, you couldn't decide for yourself, could hardly come to the conclusion that its tension on the lips albeit slightly wasn't still around. She could play with it at will, but not now.

A facial character was only scream deep, a few traits away from the beautifully muted landscape. 

Hearing her voice fascinated him, he knew she had lots of fond memories about all sorts of films, 'twas no moonshine she was serving here, everything rang true.

Ingeniously compared the Putin's catastrophe to the comet in McKay's Не смотрите наверх.

Aware that she had some close family across the Ukrainian border, he recognized the sheer psychic weight that was at stake, accompanying her most of the time. 

She had to keep up her spirits, without composing a face, laying out an attitude.

Humor was an edge to her ethics, tears that would flow from the tide of raw emotions had a hard way to well from her eyes for now.

Some of her friends wouldn't make out the situation anyway, she understood, never would have picked up a fight with them. 

Another volet, a second and a third wing of her story appeared on the screen, the oval of her face receded to the enormous flowers on her lap, pressing them with her hands, a fugacious scent, a gentle kiss upon the textured carpels, a vanquished still life in its own vivid portrait. 

 

Not exactly the time to smell the roses.

Perhaps to keep in touch with the vegetal life of the world, the vegetative human peace, rather. 

_Mira ve Miri, in our souls and hearts is all I'm asking for. 

"Kak Viy?" 

He could read the two little polite Russian words, on the right, down below, close to the terminal frame of the telephone, like a signal pointing to a mental frontier at the door of the emitted waves, on the invisible snow of this electronic epistle, the last post on the road marking the chronic great divide between people, an invitation to fence it, also. 

Unable to swing an answer, he couldn't pull himself together and find a single papered peony somewhere due to its proximity to his heart, felt idiotically sterile, maybe others had known how, had had the knack for it, never looking down, or doing it with the eyes of a boddhisattva.