The flowering
Some grey days never rise to full wakefulness. Cloud-covered dreams, the left-over feeling of having been ruthlessly shaken head-to-toe into unwilling consciousness by someone else's violence in someone else's world. I watched in horror as they threw small knives at each other, nipping at each other's skin, red essence of their flesh scarring the white of their coats while they both continued to stand firm to see who would first collapse.
The density of the diluted sun. I am underwater, succumbing to the call of sad songs while minutes march in front of the clock. The train rattles and rocks to a sleeping halt. The smudge of ink across the virgin page while a dead man sings in my ear and I shall watch over you in your sleep and in my wakefulness, that demons do not touch you.
Posted by sniffles at May 03, 2004 11:23 PM