Boris Almens is a good man. Everyone in Veyens knows this. He runs the tavern, but some nights he doesn’t come home. Mrs. Almens is used to it. She tells herself that there were many days when he didn’t come home during the war, when he was at sea. She tells herself that she’s lucky that he’s here at all. That’s what he says to her. Her eye throbs, purple and puffy.
In fact, on some days, the sky would flutter down to her. She laid her head to rest on the clouds, hours at a time each day. It used to be once or twice every week, but soon the comfort became an addiction. She’d summon the sky every time the world around her began to blur. It gave her clarity.
The sum total of all my longings and desires, expressed in a poetical way.
We often picture a ourselves in a very dreamlike way when our eyes falls into little things that really touches our souls.
This piece is a little tribute to all the sunsets that have made me daydream about countless metaphors and all the sunsets that are yet to embrace us.
I looked at my cup. “I still have a third of wine left.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that.” Buttermilk Bread snatched my cup and downed the wine like a blowjob. Albino Tasmanian Devil. She grabbed my hand. We bulldozed through the group of intoxicated nematodes to where the bedrooms were. We stood in front of the door.