- snow rains down parallel lines intersecting and t-boning as FHB hums about an entire world that is a garden that is ours, naked branches beg you to cut them to the wick. Street lamp outside the window undulating light as a theremin played by an unsteady hand.
The skin still gets kneaded, the girl massages palmfuls of flesh and muscle; she hopes to create like the sculptors do but only disrupts her pre-existing frame. Little girls don't even care to match socks and she, the forever-child, wants so badly to straighten her skin as if it were out of order.
A long, paused blink, oh, the color seeps from her plane of sight as the eyes in her head pretend to find figures in the veins of her eyelids. The body won't let the mind forget.
Times like these she really badly wants her headphones, her broken headphones, the ones that find her wherever the music says she is, the broken ones. Listening to a song without them, the sound is lost on the air, the dust she can't even see fucking absorbs it so selfishly, those notes are for her eardrums only, far from the noise spewed by the furnace that's missing some screws and hasn't been dusted since the Industrial Age. That's the sort of noise blamed by kings for the collapse of their empires.
Who do you blame?