I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.
Anaïs NinA marine snail gliding through the familiar city. Only in a dream could I move so gently along with the small human heartbeat in rhythm with the tug tug heartbeat of the tugboat, and Paris unfolding, uncurling, in beautiful undulations.
Anaïs Nin... and the very folds of the curtains contained secrets and sighs.
Anaïs NinAround her hair there was a saffron aureole, and her skin was a sea shell...
Anaïs NinHe worked on small canvases with a touch as light as a cobweb and coloring made of mirages. He lived there, at the bottom of the sea...
Anaïs NinI love your silences, they are like mine.
Anaïs NinYou are the poet, you walk inside my dreams...
Anaïs NinHis room was like an explorer's den, a lair of furs, the cave of a magician.
Anaïs NinI walked into a white city. It was a honeycomb of ivory-white cells, streets like ribbons of old ermine. The stone and mortar were mixed with sunlight, with musk and white cotton. I passed by streets of peace lying entangled like cotton spools...
Anaïs NinThe sea-lentils tied to giant serpentine string beans, sea-liquor brine, sea-lyme grass, sea-moss, sea-cucumbers. He never knew the sea had such a lavish garden—sea-plumes, sea-grapes, sea-lungs. […] The sky put on its own evanescent spectacles, a pivoting stage, fugitive curtains, decors for ballets, floating icebergs, unrolled bolts of chiffon, gold and pearl necklaces, marabous of oyster white, scarves of Indian saris, flying feathers, shorn lambs, geometric architecture in snows and cotton. His theater was the clouds, where no spectacle repeated itself.
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