Immurindu

He glides like star-dust on ice and he sees the world through lenses that reflect like fire; He speaks commandments in less than ten "And it's nonsense!" groaned the young man in despair, cradling his head. "The man doesn't do ballet," he hissed to himself, "and he doesn't glide. What on Earth's name is star-dust on ice... as for the rest," he added, licking his lips lasciviously, "he can very well give me commandments in as many numbers as he likes-" "Not so much gliding," a voice whispered in his ear. Around his waist arms had curled themselves like the sudden growth of boughs on a tree. "But stalking gracefully like a cat, and not so

Crystalline powder and aching bones, remedied hopes and Forlorn memories, glances over the dusted frames of the pictures, Grasping at the haunting sound of gasping upstairs where canaries, Caged and frozen, blood-cold, lay in trance-like death, Hanging above on countless hooks, those with crushed domes and Lonely howling hopes. Jittering bugs and curling worms, residents of the Confectionery of the cranium, and away from the attic, outside against the Backdrop of fog on the moor: Plaintive and painted faces with disgrace and distaste for the glitter of the Sun behind the gouache clouds that looms distant in the distance, Echoing the

A motion picture is what our lives were like; a B-grade movie with the frames brushing by, but never really touching on us [like an on-screen lie]. The plot didn't thicken but ran right through like cake-mix that was far too watery to really develop into anything [something i used the director for]. But there was always the illusion that I could fall back on. Imagine all the off-screen kisses we could of had, and we both knew the fans would speculate, [perhaps they would have a snowball effect? kisses to bed?] though I didn't make it a habit to read the [trash] myself; I liked to use my mind and my own fingers. But when I found ou