sammaelius

Yes, but who will cure us from the deaf fire, from the colorless fire that runs at nightfall through the rue de la Huchette, coming out of the worn out frame doors, from the fire with no image that licks stones and stalks inside the doorways, how will we wash away it's sweet burn that continues, that lies to last allied to time and remembrance, to sticky substances that keeps us in this side, and that will sweetly burn untill it consume us. Then it's better to pact like cats and moss, and make friends with the doorwomen with hoarse voices, with palid and suffering creatures that stalk in windows goofing with autumn branches. Burning with no t