Under the mundane, rain-heavy sky - a wiry, half-lost whisper broke the masonry of silence, a wind-tossed susurration that echoed, against the nothingness, emptiness of this cityscape. Echoes: ill-defined, yet oddly melodious. This is a place of forgiveness, this is a place of vindication; an ambulatory figure cut a silhouette of pitch black, blackness, meandering with a gait that commanded a brilliant dose of hilarity, humorously ambivalent.
Such a theoretical figure, should we concur; like a hypothesis, if we infer - most likely, be without, significance, concluding in sentences unregulated by structures of decorum that insults your senses with passages of unrelenting vigor. He walks, dream-like, sleep-awake, a night-cold somnambulist, sleepingwalkingdreamingtalking, missinghatinglovingcrying; populates, a universe of immutable sorrow, swallowed by the mercy of a little-death, dead to the world in a realm of sand and rivers, for that eight hours.
The heart is mostly given to ghostly occupants but he keeps his own suite, and a drawing room. Thick curtains, brilliant noir, a shuttered existence. No light touches the table, unilluminating the table. A wispy dance of dust, a deadening silence, like dead, lovers.
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