But I digress

When I think of blood I think of the subterranean rivers running within us, and of the secret streams filling us with life. I think red as in liquid roses, red as in liquid bouquets. I see China dolls seated around a fake tea table with crimson circles stamped on their cheeks. They are perfectly unmoved by the rivers. It is always teatime for them. And I think we the human waves, rushing in and out, stumbling back and forth, hesitating all the time, and feeling uncontrollably attracted not towards the Sun, which is the source of all life, but towards the Moon, which is weaker and has eight phases but feels so much more like one of us.