2 4 / 0 7 / 1 4
in the hour of dusk, six-o’clocked by the uncut gold of sunset against scrubbed white tiles, specked with oils like a canvas of time and nostalgia. a proof of our existence.
an abstract.
the light is fading, dimming narrow shafts on the antique floor. outside, traffic blurs, softened hazes of white noise, and the world shifts in and out of reality but inside is a standstill, preserved in glass jars of expired memories and marmalade, stuck in cobwebs of under-the-sink relics, the dust a state of stasis. static.
in and out, in and out, in and out of existence.
nonexistent imaginations.
