hallucination is no longer a weaver of magical phrases…

October 27, 2016


‘Come here. On the couch,’ I ordered her.

She obeyed. She stretched herself out and I sat beside her. The odour of her body was distinct. Perfumes spread a clever gloss over the woman smell, the bitter salt odour that stirred from between her closed thighs. I smiled, for the logic of this illusion grows entertaining. But I had decided on experiments. My hands stroked her hair, feeling of its strands. My fingers pressed at the skull beneath the warm skin of her head. Then I held her breasts, that had once seemed to me like two little blind faces raised in prayer. But imagery no longer decorates my thought. My hallucination is no longer a weaver of magical phrases. But stark, real its heart beating under ribs, its skin glowing with perspiration, its nipples standing out. As I caressed her I heard her say:

‘Yours. Yours. I am your woman.’

Her thighs opened and her arms that had been held toward me fell to her sides. My hand slipped between. There was warm flesh. Yes, it was flesh to my mind. And I sat for moments allowing the illusion to stir a passion in me. I would throw myself on this thing, hold it in my arms, give myself to it. Where was the wrong in that, since it was only myself I ravished, a phantom mocking me behind my eyes?

Ben Hecht
Fantazius Mallare

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