Humid. Cigarettes don’t smoke, freshly washed clothes acquire a dump, musty smell before they even have a chance to dry, droplets of water agglomerate on the foggy windowpanes and trickle into oblivion slowly crying themselves to sleep.
Non-elemental damage renders me obsolete when reading long passages of liquified text becomes regretfully excruciating, like opening a box, stuffed inside a bigger box, stuffed inside a bigger box, inside a bigger box… With my mind drifting, I discover two shiny objects in the back of my head; if something speaks to your soul it means it’s for you.