Wednesday, 17 October 2012
06:58:32 PM (GMT)
I keep smiling every time I feel the cold of the key around my neck; as I hurry home
each morning before the sun rises, after a long night of roaming the city streets,
the heavy iron thuds against my chest, as if I had a real heartbeat.
Soon, soon, I tell myself; I can't wait to unlock that attic door, and see what's
left of you.
How long has it been now? Three years? Four? Time is fluid, something my mind never
has had a firm grasp on. But when I locked you up there, I know, there were exactly
four hours of screaming before you gave up. I measured carefully, watching the
The smell is almost faded now, too, and I really am just so anxious, so excited to
see what's left of you.
Isn't it the nature of the artist, to yearn to see his work completed, finished and
Last edited: 17 October 2012