I map the contours of souls, sketching their intimate landscapes, those uncharted territories, the imperceptible murmur of clandestine hearts; and I breathe ghosts. These fleeting phantoms; lingering between both superstition and reality; they are reminiscent of books and dried flowers, tea pots and pillows, and they are nostalgic of broken bones and brittle twigs. They leave remnants of themselves hovering above my pale lips; musty and old, soothing like chamomile. These beautiful little beings, they throb oceans within my ribs, the constant ebb and flow of an infinite melancholia sends little tintinnabulations down the marrow of my spine, and I shall cling to them; dog-eared pages and faint breezes, soft melodies and winter melons.
Xx
I couldn't think you would have guts to kill someone
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