sleep doesn't help if it's your soul that's tired
"You did," you agree with no small hint of pride and sadness, because to understand takes a great deal of empathy. To piece together is to relive, to become the grains of sand tumbling through an hourglass and into the void below. The sound of the tap, of the glasses, the peeler, it has you stepping around the body, reaching for the spilled champagne. "A celebration," you note. "Interrupted, perhaps? Or a lover's quarrel..."
And then there's a clean square blinking up at you, a beacon in a grave that smells like copper. You crouch before it, examining it as if it may have been cleaned, or perhaps that is the point. Maybe there was something there before that is not there now. "Another perspective, I think. Let me be the corpse for a while."
And then there's a clean square blinking up at you, a beacon in a grave that smells like copper. You crouch before it, examining it as if it may have been cleaned, or perhaps that is the point. Maybe there was something there before that is not there now. "Another perspective, I think. Let me be the corpse for a while."
FINN
