blackness in my hands
A black spirit has possessed my hands. At night, when he takes me, it takes on the subtle pellet shape of a dark manganese mud. It blends in with the nocturnal gloom and blends my skin into it, staining it with an evocative and soft blackness. I look at myself and look at myself and I would swear to become more African the more I caress the spectrum, which transmits its attractive essence of pure ebony to me. I can only let myself be carried away by the spell. So much color populates my extremities, inspires my senses and tells me about other selves to know. Multicolored alter egos, hidden by the world, that without seeing them already reflect me, multiply me.
Thus, dimly lit, drenched in radiant brown tones, imbued with the hypnotism of neat slime, I let the jet-black goblin guide my movements towards an inexorably new bowl. Accompanying, that slip that appears to be oil and that flows between the piece and my leather, I dressed it for the occasion, smearing it while in silence I dialogue with the captivating spectrum. The water must be the one that takes me out of such a pleasant enchantment, so as not to leave any more proof than the creature itself and a faint trace in one of the cuticles that will keep the secret from strangers, eager to find someone to reveal them.