A Temporary Space...

Armageddon On One's Lips

Hunting The Witch, Holding Your Breath...

Through the low hymn of the crowd
he stares through a red haze
a conductor to the glass choir

...All I Could Do Was Watch Her Leave

"No shadow
No stars
No moon
No care
November
It only believes
In a pile of dead leaves
And a moon
That's the color of bone"




-Tom Waits, The Black Rider (1993)

Her voice was the sound of shattered bone that never healed properly...
it was at some points fragile and at others more resolute than I remembered.

Skin covered in the ash of nostalgiathe weight of tempered memorythe howling heart a phoenix denied flight.