Conjurations of another dimension.

A bow draws across nickel strings, conducting the chaos into form and model. A quiet lull dances with this mournful wail, and trails trace paths in the wake of your laugh. Stardust sprinkles savage this voluminous vacuum, as razors whip through the newly breathed air, carving whistles where the barest of fibers once hung. Ribbons and rods and clouds of God descend into view, to give shape to the nothingness within everythings that did not yet exist. Nothing existed were it not for that song. Just the song.

It was what she sang. Were it not for how she sang, it might never have existed at all. She sang it with her eyes, she sang it in her smile, she sang it through her touch, she sang it all the while. Her voice was the bow, her voice the string, her voice the crescendo, rising a thousand steps to mingle with the cumulonimbus, then falling through the depths of thunder's bullish wisdom.

Her words began to take a shape. It was not perfect, this shape; some might even have said it was far from it. But it mattered not. She called this shape "perfect". With tantalizing gestures of a gracious hand, she willed this yet-amorphous being in a beckon to the heavens. The shape rose, still cycling through its metamorphosis, searching for wings to spread in flutter. Panic broke through its skin, to assume odd proportions, odd angles, and unbecoming wield.

A surge of power erupted through the eye of the storm, and what had yet not been was drawn into the vortex beneath this rising missile, this unrelenting force still struggling to recognize its own shape.

The calm in her eyes brought calm to wings aflutter. The song in her heart brought heartbeats to this lifeless enigma. Her touch brought recognition of self. Her lips brought forth hunger, thirst, yearning, desire. Her laughter brought mirth.

Her embrace brought him into this world.

Coke-shaped whore.

.teef ruoy ta nus eht ecalp dluohs eh ,lehctas sih otno srats wes uoy fi.

Sometimes, love just cannot be made to wait, no matter how hard we try.

Olympic Airways

Let's disappear till tomorrow.

We Are The Massacre

He pattered about the room aimlessly, prodding clothes, and hanging towels. She lay in bed, silently waiting. In the pale blue tube light coming from the ajar bathroom door, she saw him sigh, hang his head, and make his way to join her. He lay with his back to her, much like always. In the darkness, she sidled over, and held onto him, arm clinging to waist. She latched on with a vice like grip, and sobbed into his shoulder. Her tremors shook the bed, but stir he did not. Her quiet soliloquoy continued through the night, until a restless sleep consumed her noise.

When she came to, the crook of her arm was empty. His clothes and all his other belongings were gone. All of him; it was all gone. All, except for the faintest trace of Polo Blue still dream-dancing around the room, and the salt-stains left on a damp pillow. And traces in the air of the pain he carved into his flesh, in the death of the night when her tears waltzed unknowingly with his.

Perpetually perpetuating perpetuation.

Silent trails drawn through stagnant waters disappear with the ebb and flow of time.

Four Sorries.

Come, stay with me, my love. Time will slowly pass, and these warm sunny mornings will be spent looking back. But let us come together, and think not of what has gone, but what is to come. And make our tomorrows the best yesterdays when their time is up.

Sleep well, my love.

I'll chase after you. Even when I am asleep. Even in my dreams, I chase after you. I can't remember most that I've seen in recent times. But I always remember one detail; each sequence involves running after you. Getting to where you are. Bringing myself to you.

Sleep peacefully. So I can finally catch up. Even if it's just whilst I dream....