Here we are, the merry writers of afterglow. Composing the scenarios. Orchestrating indigo.
We don’t care, we; the merry witers. If our laughter is in good taste. We are loud if we’re on top and allowed if we’re on top. We; making history, changing everything.
On the cobblestone, wet from air – the damp, cold air of coastal nights. Slowly I turn, step, then chase. Cause everything you radiate threatens my escape. From a muffled winter hangover. Imposing eternity. In the end, Death wins the race.