Jesus Christ, I swear he could write beauty into a bloodbath and make you wish you were there. He is insanely talented, read for yourself.
Spoiler alert: there is a bath sans blood.
While taking a bath, the sound of wind chimes comes to me through the window and for some reason, I feel like crying. Closing my eyes, I see her dancing in a void, and the delicate beauty of it is reminiscent of the sensation of a moth’s wings tickling the insides of my clasped hands. She reaches out. She collapses. She blooms. Sometimes she scratches and when I prise open my fingers she’s not there and neither is the moth but the void is still near and as the wind chimes chime and the branches of the trees call my name she is still with me like the shadow she is. The days are long and the sky mostly empty and the hours consist of mundane work and memories and fire and the lips of women and the words they force me to write and the subtle humming of ghosts…
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