White lipstick stains her glass of red wine

People fall from bridges. Just the way frost stumbles upon buildings. Hands freeze and almost fall off. Lips are sealed but persuade this delusive heat to outburst and eyelids become solid blocks, sugar cubes holding tight to the eyes.

Apocryphal steam tickles the skin, an incandescent overflow of nothingness in its pure essence, but dressed up in a fluctuation of benevolent coziness. But there’s no such thing in the heart of a frozen river, freezing by the minute, sleeping unconsciously on the edge of its own death.

Everyone denies this coldness, all those who have golden raindrops in the apple of their eyes. It’s not possible, to burn in ice like never before and swallow everything while your chest gently becomes an open cage. A birdless cage.

A wall with no bricks or an odd cake, flavourless or a jejune phoenix throwing itself in the fire right after rebirth. Well we turn into Greek statues. When the statues stop having sight, but just stoned eyes, then the Gods are dead.

And the statues now look at the steep cover of ice that circles their eyes. And smile at this peaceful insanity, this murderous healing of everything that ever hurt. And the Gods choke and die. One by one.

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