Being of ashes, being of lye, lurks by the window, head cocked to the side.
Gossamer threads pulling in my mind, a pressure like an illness, charcoal fingers, the smell of fennel, it burns inside: a haze of diesel. We walk in darkness. We walk in pain. We walk in smoke. We walk in light. Being of ashes, being of lye, lurks at the window, head cocked to the side.
Dark figure floating in my sleep, face like a mask, just an apprentice, message in hand: "He's always been here, and he always will."
Eight millimeter, my defense, always observing in futility. An invader towers before me, and behind. There's no escaping. Defenestrate my memory.