floatedmidway
Virginal white walls, hard, sharp angles, and tiny windows to other worlds. Paint splashed across carpet, spilled orange juice, dirty dishes.
Touchy touchy
Feely feel
How can a look pierce more sharply than a spear?
How can a touch crush more completely than a bludgeon?
A clue is something small. A hint. The cracks in the pavement, the splatter of blood. Where did the bullet come front? Who slept with who? Motive? Circumstance? Why was the floor wet? Who wet the floor?
Who left the door a jar?
Who's left?
Conviction held me to my word
Conviction weighs all the things I heard
And before I make my grave
Conviction will make of me a slave