folds in time and flesh.. abundant bridges over deep chasms. her voice is paper. her words are rain. they will always be betrayed by one another.
she counts the steps. pretending she is getting closer to something.
breaking the skin of the apple. to let it rot. because regret is hidden in every ripe piece of fruit.
mediocre gods fiddling with the contrast. lazy devils distorting the volume. there is no script. only the memory black and white. the colors don't belong to us. the images are only temporary.
the precision of touch. seldom reliable, but always accurate. the science of skin in vinegar and ketchup. hope. the sweetest of venomss.
the collapse of reason. almost deliberate. as the experiences overtook her.
a slender resolve. ripe with a ferocious impotence.
her fingers the empty envelope where the words should be.
time machines. both real and imagined. finding no future.