( part i. )
it was morbid.
he was running, his lungs felt tight in his caged chest; a dove of peril, sorrow that would never be freed.
an abating whirl of air and winding melodies, the beats of his heart blaring in his ears as though the sound of a warning drum.
his fingers curled and straightened out like the cold road ahead of him, dirt painting his sneakers, a portrait of famine and quarrel. and he pondered on whether his pain was the artist, or was it rather the kiss of death?
he clutched the buzzing phone in his palms, trembling with each fogged breath.
the arms of sadness cradled him, hushing his cries of tranquil and pulling the darkness over him like a fur.
so he dreamt, and dreamt.