Dead flowers are unholy.
She hears the sound of pebbles in a glass jar following her. Dry leaves now damp litter her way and look like they have a faint bit of color coming back to them. The day is grey and dark and everything thing it touches turns a bit purple.
She was walking back home from the train station, her sweater wet, making her think of sheep. Her hair was clingy; she twisted their length and rubbed their tips over her mouth. She continued walking. She hadn’t been going anyplace particular when she left home that morning. And she didn’t leave home often. Train stations take us everywhere. But she wasn’t going everywhere. She was walking back home.
Sometimes we unlock familiar doors and hope to find ourselves in a different place. But she wasn’t in a different place. She was home. Home was nauseating and home smelt of home. It smelt of remains and some of those remains were her own.
She shut the door behind her and peeled her sweater away. She went and stood by the window with clouded and vapory panels. Decondensed drops trickled by and formed incomplete shapes.
She could eat, she thought. But the oven heat would scorch her and make her hair stringy. She lashed open the windows and with a deep breath recalled her computer to life.
The ‘sign in’ button blinked for an hour. Then the screen blanked into darkness.
[………………]
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