the lady with lilac hair chanted, exhausted. pounding her head, pounding her head, pounding her head, against indonesian rugs. exhaling. ceasing. slowly curling, she composed her bones comparable to that of a fragile coiled fetus. it was my duty then to understand the position. so, erroneously, i allowed my palm to rest at her neck's nape. feeling her bodily pulsations go languid, then rise, unannounced, like sudden rapids in a river. small puddles piled in attempts to conceal the fissure between her left cheekbone and the woven fibers, but would only ever last for a few seconds--or until the threads absorbed their existence. over time it was as though my resting hand had been coerced into that vital vertebrae. and then bit by bit regressing further, engulfed further, to emulate umbilical cord. ultimately, the rug lost it's ability to swallow. the room flooded, easily. submerged in our secluded world's womb--although unable, we found, to float amidst amniotic fluid. so there we stay, simply sinking...simply sinking...simply sinking. exhaling. ceasing.