Fugitive Colours
By
Erastes
Most things lessen with time. Time itself for one.
There’s something slavishly-liberating about being unable to tell time or even notice
the change from day to night. The moments merely punctuated by the Chinese
water torture of the dripping of a tap I cannot see from here.
Funny how laughter is hush-muffled by stones that have
never heard it before. It’s like they’re on my side. There’s a thought. Perhaps
there is only so much horror that can be absorbed – even by granite, and they
hunger for more cheerful noises, take them in, swallow them whole.
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