The Sun was burning the deep blues, a shining pearl as she moved her hair sideways, a sense of nakedness in her eyes. I was drowning, spiralling down the black hole, through an open door letting me inside her garderobe of thought. Like a lightning is her trust, as a foaming fall of lust.
All blinding and shining when suddenly an epileptic jazz snap drags him out of his daydream, like a storm blowing through an open window to wake him up. Thibault's mother was standing there, before him. Her eyebrows were boats sailing on her ocean blues waiting to sink when staring at her son.
