The feelings passed, but not the memories, and that forlorn pounding grew inside of him of everything that’d been lost or abandoned, until finally the inside of his head felt coated with layer after layer of failing paint.
At night he would lie in his bed wondering what had become of the windows and the light, barely remembering what brightness had felt like. Yes, it’d been so bright once, he’d think, picking at chips of the peeling paint, chewing on them one by one, poisoning himself.
Some experimental spoken Word Shadows
