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In the houses I grew up in, a deep ache punctuated everything.
The faint but steady pulse of something between life and death.
Coffee stains overlay a crimson wine ring; the sporadic ensos of life.
I was 10 when I realized something was burning.
It felt both near and far; an idea of something against what it actually is.
The fantasy exists if you learn not to look for too long. But it was all I could see - the vignette at the edges of my reality, a shadow creeping slowly along the corners of everyday life.
My sister thrusts the bottle into my hands.
She says she wants to return to the graves of the people our parents used to be.
We've been here before.
The path from her door is worn like a trench.
The path from her door is worn like a trench.
We've been here before.
She says she wants to return to the graves of the people our parents used to be.
My sister thrusts the bottle into my hands.
But it was all I could see - the vignette at the edges of my reality, a shadow creeping slowly along the corners of every day life. The fantasy exists if you learn not to look for too long.
It felt both near and far; an idea of something against what it actually is.
I was 10 when I realized something was burning.
Coffee stains overlay a crimson wine ring; the sporadic ensos of life.
The faint but steady pulse of something between life and death.
In the houses I grew up in, a deep ache punctuated everything.