Thrils
"Thrils" It was late at night, a crisp winter. I was covered by soft sheets and cozy socks, white and blue with silver stars on them. I flicked through the pages and gazed at the images for the hundredth time, as the raindrops tapped my window I gazed at the crack where water seeped in whenever it rained, whenever condensation built up. I stroked my fingers though the cold window and attempted to draw the face, one line at a time as, whenever I stopped the drop would precipice, gravity pulling down like a tear in a face. I followed the blue line that formed that face, the famous face from which he’d receiveD acclamation, the face that I thought looked broken, shattered and seemed trapped. The stripes of blue and yellow galavanted and formed the shape of that tortured face. Simple lines over layers and layers of paint of indiscribile colours, that I could never recreate in a window. I focused on that mane line. I can’t remember where I began but I remember I followed ...
