~ visual spells ~

"Bob," I said, really looking at him for the first time. "Somehow you don't seem like a Bob to me. Is it okay if I call you Robert?

heavy heart and quiet hands.
halfway through removing pictures, photos, sketches, posters, notes from the walls before moving out. white walls. tones stepping down like a little girl after her white ball, right into the dungeons.
so now what. flashbacks from so many similar evenings developing into flashbacks from other evenings, and nights, and days, and mornings and leading into a broader reflection over the bygone. over which evil is necessary and which is not. if any. or pain. or blood. is it only astray rhethorics for those on the brink of sanity to excuse their scars.

stripped myself from the walls, the room looks like a mental institution now. whiteness cubed. only this messed-up patti triptych left. how she, in years, pinched my neck delicately turning my perception. towards the rightest.
white tea, white wine. wine. candle flames make the air more human.

is it twisted to think that falling is in a way good? without gravity there would be neither rivers nor rain. yet it's we who pay the consequences. at the speed of light and at the speed of its absence.

fell asleep in the middle of writing this entry. vague rememberance of what shall follow. the morning came with the rain and led to calm gardens, scenting wet dust and cut grass. radio thrown me into the right rails, started off in swirls and ritual dances over the suitcase. spinning wheel got to go round.

still not answered.
can bullets be the beauty.