lying in bed, below my windows.
memories from a long gone Romania, flickering like candles before my eyes; suddenly I'm five years old and falling down grandfather's three story Victorian house all over again. I'd thought I could fly -I still do sometimes. nineteen stitches after landing on the garden rake; the gardener was fired the next day.
scar tissues as thick as the glass my windows consist of; Catalena's sweet lips taste them as the short hand of the clock reaches its end. it looks fatigued as I glance at it through the moonlight. -will it ever get to rest?