Eva The Fugitive - pg. 33

"There was a time when I loved the cascades of the deep night, all red, and a rain of fine angel blood. The color red. The color of a heart in the throes of despair, and an empty hand that extinguishes death. And the red horses speed, tormented, across the sky. Until finally the ocean bleeds its foam, and boats come and go like those thoughts that have a way of haunting us and in whose presence we do not trust ourselves to set the empty page on fire. Surely we are living at the edge of a precipice. The frozen waters reflect our image like small dots that we are not willing to see completely, in place that we are not anxious to locate. It is toward these distant red spaces that we have to direct the best and worst in us. But we are afraid of the rather heavy windlash, the oozing blood; we fear the great red flower of possibilities. For once, my delirious reailty is no more than a monologue rambling about a woman who has something to do with my existence and about a night when wine was the ultimate coral that my dream extracted from the brilliant heart of the sea."