Embroidered music, rustic symphonies in autumn shades of regret. Comfortable in the rain, death writes sonnets with his fingers on my fogged window. Crepuscular dreams muscle into my psyche. Dreams of hours coated in a sticky, sweet love. St Dymphna, pray for me. The hour of my reckoning stretches over my house the way the afternoon usually does, languid and lazy. How electrical the lies I tell myself! Do you smell the acrimonious fire?
Miniature Moon 