† Roshan Gurmeet Singh
One sentence that elicits darkness, is voluntarily being mute to the voice of another.
She heard the sobs of someone crying on the staircase outside, along with the dissonance of the person's pain. It irritates her, though, something made her she withdraw the embellishments of venom.
Some nights, the despair of the weeps get a little more visceral though her own darkness keeps the terracing of her shadows, hand in hand.
The statues and their withering flowers caress her ears.
4 legs in the morning, 2 at noon and 3 in the evehertz.
When your tongue is unscripted, everything will seem pretentious.
Th3re are orchestrated attacks against continental ideas by trying to weaponize my body against me.
It was 8. The pathways were misty. The phone booth at the square of someplace and nowhere was deserted. Smoke travelled nautiluslly from the coldness of the nearby river.
An handful of herbs were gently cruising on the back of a vast leaf, without leaning against the water. There was a dried chilli, a cardamom, a fennel seed, a rice husk, a feather that guidedly made their way north, towards a perpendicular starwayed bank that was lit with the sky's tears.
The rectangle bar that is leased from the earpod to your hand is charging.
There are more signs in boxes than secrets in shelves.
Consider a thought, a village. A village reserved with acres of streaming pinnacles; green, yellow and crimson red, splintering with the sundial of the clouds.
The atap zinc roof rusted with the rustic haemoglobin oxidization of moons and moons of thundering storms which tapdance.
The sound of jewels anklets rung, as someone outside walked barefeet on the red earth, with vermillion on her toes and outerarch of her heel. The scent of the early rainfall, evaporated towards her as she walked on the grizzly grass carpeted with dew.
A blind person stretched open the blinds of the apartment.
Her veins glowed translucently in the light of the morning sun. Her arms freckled like the auburn flowers that grow amongst apple orchards, in the allegorical countryside. On some drifty sunrise, the day rose like an spirited apple crushed by the venom of a cobra. In contrast, the RGB vision that she acquired from somewhere, helped her with the darkness that lashed upon the left phalange of her left feet that contrarily caused her blindness.
The last thing she remembered was stretching her feet, and.
Amnesia.
She woke up in a daze, with the sun blaring upon her face.
The door closed.
Now, there were days where she awoke with indifference. The rhythm of the bells were her sense of sonar.
It seems somehow melancholic that her acute myopicness was expansive.
The thoughts and whispers of the planets, plants, animals and elements were her friends. When one gets too near the Sun, their corneas burn with the a heterochromiacal glare.
If one were to ask, she would say that the Sun has no face because it audibly sees with infragammatheta wavelengths. Night progresses for her at noon. The sensitivity of the ultraviolet gazes becomes sharper, until dusk.
A psychedelia of radiance sets at the penumbra of eve, when the blazing screams of the street lamps and traffic lights cast a sparkle upon her laminating strobed eyelashes. At hours that are peak, the atmosphere unveils the exoskeletons of the uninvited.
The tunes of a milky bland piano played by itself in eerie hours of quiet moonbeams, like frothing kerosene set by the silence.
Forgoing in the scape of the city, the windows speak to the steel with their incumbent chatter of nuts and bolts, where the abstract metaphorical chalice of a building sings with the obelisks, when lightning strikes.
Sometimes, when you talk to chalk walls it is better, cause they echoes, a ghost.
Their high school popularity contest is not over, you can see their yearbook photograph infront of coffeeshops.