“You realize she’s so made that it’s as if at any moment, at her own whim, her body could cease to live, could just thin out around her and disappear from sight, and that it’s in this threat that she sleeps, exposes herself to your view. That it’s in the risk she runs, with the sea so close and empty and black still, that she sleeps.” – Marguerite Duras, an excerpt from ‘The Malady of Death’.
Here. The perfumed hour, the still one. Salacious musk and orange-blossom scent. Irreverence and nightshade. Golden light flickering through the terror in the ceiling. Sills, full of flowers. Light, sensual in every creeping movement. Toying, tempting. Devouring. The savage, onset of Winter, doing similar to the flesh of I. Violencing. There’s bloodlust in these eyes and the thirst of the sea in this head. All thoughts exist only to be drowned. I, am willing to become stifled by my own hand. Come, into my mind. And drown with me. I promise you it will be tragic. And how the cold, eats. Winter filling my soul with its shivered bite. Frostbitten tongue, a reminder of this fragmented love. A love rooted in a desire for escapism, a pull towards romanticism and modern neurosis. Winter. I, could sleep inside of you.