The rich ambient light that shines ever so slightly on time like decaying dreams caught in the mist resonate upon my breasts. My dry lips are sealed with a key but tear apart at the seams. Just like the Cheshire Cat, that elusive icon, smiles on his face like freeze frame motion. All the conjuring souls in the forest looking for an empty abode, take heed of the widow’s weeds. Celebrating Samhain for their desperate needs.
Another weeks end is upon us Suicide Sunday we relieve all who trust. That’s how I see things in my realm, the dark mentalist only knows this too well.