Every time I looked at my own face, it was like a reflection of a ghost on a placid surface of dark water. All the time I wished for a drip of blood to bring it to life, but it never came: the pleasure of life never came to the reflection, and to the bearer altogether. I waited for ever, as if waiting for a last train that would take me home but never arrived. I had always thought that my faith had, since a long time ago, gotten jagged along the way. In the dark. In a cul-de-sac.
PUT THE HEART BACK IN YOUR POCKET.
ph by devina
