Wednesday, 12 February 2014

I have no recollection of writing this, but I must have because it was my handwriting

My scalp itches in the morning and the water here tastes like cold metal -almost as if someone had punched me in the face and I was left on the dark carpet, left to lick the blood remnants off my own face. Blood is thick but so are the curtains and the mustard rays they project are dancing fairies against an odd landscape where I don't belong. 

Idols are scary things because pedestals are only ever made of misconceptions: it's hard living up to a vision you didn't conceive, especially if they build your statue 5 meters too tall.

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