now, getting darker (all the while), like her eye in time, or no not really,
in her black averted pit there is light, a spark, even on bad days, this
is a threat to life darkness, poisoned lead grey, anthracite skirts, stubborn
graphite (sucked from my pencil; it will the end of you, that habit, she
told me once) my feeble lighting wont push it back beyond my windows, mijn
vensters, tableaus of non movement, no lively life, except the trains crashing
along with metal mouth screaming, they bring more darkness past my studio,
it's gonna get worse before getting better, the curtained world being pulled
and pulled (darkly), perhaps the last day of my life or the first, womb
black womb red.
Good morning to you this evening.