At the age

At the age of twenty six, I was long dead. I had retreated home. I carted off Granny to Uncle C. She was at the late stage of arterioscleroses, and I could not countenance keeping an eye on her. I still hated her. She was not safe in my hands. I used to hover over her face chanting you gonna die, you gonna die and I don't care. After a while I got bored and decided to start small fires underneath the sofa. Other times I would smash the funereal vases that she collected for her late husband's tomb, my beloved yet unknown grand father rip

If they try to punish me for my misdemeanours, I'll just disappeared into the mirror

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Posted with Blogsy

Water.

 

She loves water: whenever it rains, she sits at the window. She says it is her homage to an imaginary woman from same tale or another. She refuses to elaborate. Nimble, covered with droplets, she smiles. Nothing really matters, she sings over and over again.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Evergreen

Evergreen, on the trail of shadows, evergreen.