Your hair is entangled with timeless experiences where primitive phantoms screech through antique hallways.
I have perceived those morose paintings which depict sadness and loss to such an extent that the air in the room can be sliced with a bread-knife.
Ah, there is something ruminative about olfactory observations, where dust commands unspoken attention to matters which have never been disclosed.
I fully rest in the City of Boston. Do you know why? Because those from Massachusetts know how to cook a breakfast whilst architectural brilliance splays her legs across streets of apprehensive humidity.
I will be there before the past echoes her burnt offerings to foresight.
Let’s go to bed now.