remissive

  It was never the wraith who kept on sweeping my mind clean from the clearness.

I am the ghost. I have always been.

  

  And the terrible howling throats... the wraith never made a merit of them.

It seems that at this very moment I'm mincing your back. Why are all the memories so deep with lust? It seems that at this very moment I'm feeling your randy clunky kissing. Sometimes I'd think you would choke with our love. Or with the lunacy. We both were choking with the immoderate vacuous thirst. Those short inebriate moments of truce, the cuddles of the irrational reality we were in... It leads to nothing. Balefully and ruthlessly. To that nothing brimful with smells, sounds and touch, where one swells till the fingers wrinkle so badly that one's already ripe for another flesh. Soul... for another one. 

(And then you heal)

Je suis pas morte. J'ai pas encore écrit mon livre.

Why do the rivers flow with crimson? It's not the fruits wallowing in the waters. It's not the gore dripping in the flows. It's the sheer welter bringing all the banshees up and voicing their oracles. The air rings with the throats of brass. I feel the freshet trickles between my toes...

  It was a story of a giant and a little girl. They were sitting on a bed. He, leaned upon the hills of books, was trying to fit into a space as small as possible. He wanted to fit on her lap, to nestle his heavy head up against a thumping tiny heart without breaching it. (Didn't he know it wasn't possible?) And she, who has fit her entire life on his pillow, was calmly looking at the tangle of anguish and could not distinguish the blue of his eyes from the blue outside, on the other side of the foul window. They didn't feel the fatal peril. But giants don't sleep in the pits of the stomachs of little girls. They don't.