Perhaps one of these days I shall write something for my grandchildren. Maybe the time will come; so far it has not.
ยท
Perhaps one of these days I shall write something for my grandchildren. Maybe the time will come; so far it has not.
“We have all lived in the hive. The walls bending from a thousand, scavenged paintings, every one in dissonance with the others. Rooms cluttered with chairs and cheap, expensive rugs. On one of the mattresses my blood, under the sheets. Hotbodied nights. A landscape of my blood painting mistake after mistake until the word is meaningless. Until the act is.”
Alyssa Morhardt-Goldstein | Nympholepsy