Literature
Estance
It rains and I don't know who I am.
I look at the light, the pale grey light from above, that burns, that burns the back of blinking eyes, my eyes? Tired eyes, blinking, blinking to wipe away the large and cold and stringent raindrops...
Where is the answer? In these heavy drenched clothes, inbetween the thick streams running down, down my shivering bare skin covered in nameless scars? Or under the surface of trembling facial muscles, hidden, hidden under the throbbing pain of migraine? I wish I could speak, but I cannot speak: my mouth is sewed shut and I forgot all words.
I can barely see, I am blind, blind for anything but this overwhelm
