The Enigmatic Gaze

She was seen leaning forward, on the left, near the slumbering boatman, and offering the wishbone of a sputtering tremor, so heart-rending that the cellist of imaginary angles chisels off the particles of last regrets and, on the verge of transparency, licks up the precious antidote: the aerodynamic pearl of a marksman who has no name, nor walking-stick, but only a faded horoscope and a T-square of enchantment. When he touches her, she is the spyglass of the gargoyles in unison with the foundry of the occultist’s last and most sublime hex.

When her glow increases, and her spell sheds all resemblances to any known healing process or stuttering enigma, she spreads her phantom limbs and slips down through the prism of many centuries... a faded photograph of immense proportions almost reveals the shuddering anomaly of her image, like a veil that enchants the fireflies of lost time. Her angelic teeth betray the riddle of her departure, and her hair of lunar abandon never failed to burn the optical and spine-tingling paradox of waking up unharmed by the wonders of the world, or scattered in the wind like spinning seeds, or sparks of great annoyance and longing, that stick to the sepia-toned chimera of ageless savants. Scorpions are gathering steam... Theories run wild...