Darkness. Sweat. Bleached pillows and feathery blankets. In between reality and imagination. Somebody calls it unconscious, somebody desire.
Was that it?
To be waited for? Or to be stuck in a cement basement, the hands free enough to call for help, with the only effect to see them rush in the opposite direction.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: