The corners of days curl in dry lack of movement.
Air whirls past and light echoes the framework of time.
A face reflects shadows as it hides between sheets of water, paint, paste, spit, fabric, paper and skin.
My fingers click, shake, quiver, and pulsate with readiness to drown in the drips, drops and folds of my own memory.
A hand re-awakens, plunges past the forgotten fears, the unforgiving guilt, the worn etchings of tired days and hidden nights, past the distant ringing of a bell. ... read more