sanama

Bowing amaryllises shaking in the vase in the rhythm of smoking hands. Ash on the kitchen table ash on the wooden floor. There are unwanted chunks of gifts put on the windowsills at last the thieves have woken up to a thought of mindless drifting. Even in their dreams pale forms scrollable forms keeping their distance to an observer a safely numbing ever-dream.

Like one would turn into a ruins that won’t notice their own decay from the intensity of a personal winter. There they are watching the world shrinking wondering why the deer won’t come visit where the rabbits are gone if Watership Down repeats itself in a loop. Anything could be a charming castle ruins if it was able to remember. But the thieves will arrive just before the decay scattering the memories making them ungraspable.