How, with all the blanks filled in, can I still not manage the colour of the sky? It’s too vast, I tell myself. Cloudless, it’s too pure. When I see those fluffy white beasts, I say, get away, you’re blocking my view.

Why is the sky so hard to draw?

I think it may be that I want not to float out of my body and high up there, when I die.

Should I mar the purity, of the sky.



Your silence is like a fine coating of dust

That shrouds my room

My bed weighed down

Shards of sparkling glass

All around

So I sit, congested, congealed

Afraid to move

Lest I disturb your silence;

All that remains of you.