strong, burning nights like fire on Absinthe. beers, revolution, rebellion, white smoke inside gray lungs, the doors of perception. truth and insomnia, dreams are to be awaken, after all.
she had an eye for Romanticism, but her feet were too heavy she still couldn't afford a pair of iron wings. daylight wasn't her thing, and when night came to wrap the city like a womb, she'd dreamed of a stranger with sun-kissed skin, dressed in all black. his expensive leather-and-velvet jacket would have a lot of drapes, and his designer leather boots would stomp on concrete pavements like harsh rain on one's skin. he would be small-eyed, the stranger, and just like any other great artists, he would 'light either sides of a candle'.
ph by devina
