...through the scattered remains of the pages, brushed and torn and definitely mud-splattered. The sunlight smelled of summer, lightning glinting at the edges like a forgotten mirage, laying wait for the unlikely hero or defiant villain...
...and then there's you, who watches on in a mingled awe and horror that can only be unmatched by a porcelain doll, your eyes a painted facade, two pools of paint, devoid of feeling and experience...
...they cycle around my head, like spotting crows, like a disturbed cloud of confused butterflies, brushed aside by the constraints of time and the unwillingness of conscious devotion. Do they remain? Or do they slowly disappear, never to return...
...monotony returns like a sullen friend, unwilling to be shaken, lodging itself into the nooks and crannies of space and time, seeping into the very mortar and wood which plasters itself around this place of safety and hallowed serenity. Unwilling to answer the ringing of the doorbell...
...and clutches at her forehead, snatching at her hair, not wanting the feeling to disperse into the awaiting maw of night, but not knowing how else to preserve it. Ink seems to be the only solace, the only cure to this gnawing affliction, but the dreams of a selfish urge beckons, its finger a silver shaft of moonlight, the lull as calm as a hymn, as alluring as the slow-quick march of time...
...doesn't know what to think anymore, doesn't know how to feel. The very skin which the soul is encased in feels solidly fluid, strangely luminous yet so dark it drinks the coming dawn like a red liquor, wine for the growing inspiration, mead for the sacred hall of the mind, the freedom which it brings washing the eyelids, the sound gracing her eardrums in a silent symphony, audible only to the inner meditations....
...noise, noise, noise, noise, it clouds their mind, the mundane buzz of the radio bringing them to their knees, tearing their being apart. They feel nothing, falling into oblivion, the dark hatred of the world surrounding them grating their bones upon the grindstones of society, cloaking them in darkness, in despair...
...blessed kindness, divine sermons fall upon deaf ears. A paper mask covers a serene face, the thoughts in the mind undisturbed, unbroken, like the tides of the sea, a steady constant within the chaotic exchange which we all live...

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