It is a pity the web is the way it is.
I was half-dreaming a story in which she, shrieking at him, threw open the frame, thereby exposing the imperfections below. I saw it all, the grand gesture, the blazing hair, and upturned face thrown back like Saint Teresa, the outstretched arm, grand in gesture, the jangled dissonance of the underside of the frame. She, standing there, facing him, the overthrown sash behind her, the chasm of the suprise between them, was transfused with light, strong and pure and lovely.
It was a perfect moment until I remembered it would never happen - not the way I pictured it - in a splash of sunlight in a place where everything is tangible.
I am besotted with this image. The girl is clearly a better me, from her hair down, her hands stained with action. She is everything I'd be if I wasn't already me. This girl, this girl, this alchemist has transformed pixels to protons, she has found a way to create without binary or hex or the smooth movement of a mouse. She touches.
New Wood. The frame was freshly carved into the press, it was clear, still light with remembered sap, glistening, a newborn. It lay there, pushed aside, breathing heavily, hungry for the change. And he - He stood there, still, shock writ large as his poet says. The dynamo, her heart pulsing, watches him for movement, her shoulder still, her arm stretched out behind her in a sharp visual reminder.
She waits. The black iron discolored by rust and grime and misuse is dim in the shadow of the frame, clutching as it does the echo of the form, and it is restless here, exposed.
This Vignette was inspired by a Waking Dream after a too-short nap.