Across the street inside this shithole lived a woman, eyes of long forgotten heron, hair bloomed from the ashes of a Delilah,ass to be touched through googolplex. I intended to write something for her, without those clothes, without those celestial shadows on her. But you see imagination has a funny side of not turning up at moments when there’s a veracious chance of practicality, so I couldn’t. Her lips, her phlegmatic vagina,her ephemeral soul longed for her husband…a murderer, a dreamer. On days he used to send letters in pink or purple or sceptic blue envelopes from jail and Everytime she would decorate her ashtrays with flowers from cremated heaven. On nights you could see those reflections of her drunk epiphanies from glass existence.
The last letter was inside a white envelope, she listened jazz music the whole day…the sounds of those rippling intruments travelled towards the singularity and came back to show me molested dreams. Yeah I got that right, I am quite sure that day I heard the sounds of broken dreams. Strangely mine too. It was inevitable to fall for her mess.