This morning is a candle-lit depression sans candles or depression. It’s seven:thirty in the morning and I’m decked out for fetish night. All foreseeable actions include bearing broken wings.
Get ready to have your fortune told. I’m going to scry your damned eyes. I have the patience of a little death. Wheedling miseries offset by happiness. Arching into Barakka on my ceiling. Sight flutters open to see the world above me, the sounds and passions cold lighting my room with warm reflected life. Hot white world. Even without my eyes, it’s beautiful. They’re on the floor, the other side of the bed from the projector.
Darling, when you’re Mine, you stay that way.