The ink flows over the blotter, the night extends her sheets. Hour quiet, dark, suffused with phlegm and introspection. Rain
hot water bubbles so, crazy stuffs. There is something missing, a small fee, a breath, a reminiscence, a desire.
You anoint yourself at night? Yes, sometimes. Just a drop, depending on the mood.
sweet fragrance? Steamy perfume? Scent memory? Comforting? Hallucinating? Precious?
A drop ... Two, maybe. To myself. Reverie.
He accompanies me in my dreams, reaching out to me, always ... Who? Perfume? Yes and no.
His light, his soul, my memory ... that's all. The memory haunts me. An invisible thread, but palbable impossible. It withers? No! Absolutely not! I feel it. I feel. I blood. Games without ...
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