the sounds of a sick violin creep along the corridor – what a damned night. the ashes that collect on your black dull boots fall to the ground from the second storey staircase landing. stupid banisters. waiting is fucking tough.
neon private colours, lurid of hues you will never deign to imagine, to paint on your clean pathetic canvas, clean white like the skin of her beautiful body, white like no other bright day, white of the most painful, that broken toy..