Chapter 1
He no longer owns his past, the thoughts so deep meaning more than self pity knowing what they are, that they exist but what they were stays unclear. His body shakes in pain. He no longer owns the lullaby of breath, not rhythm of heartbeat. Body lies cold on the cracked tiled floors. The glass stained angels keep watch over him, as soul descend. Blood slips between pale flee will never be found, his real self will never be known. Autumn leaves damp with melting snow clinging to the window pane. Drops of moisture slipped between his thin violet lips, eyes tinted with milky film, pulsating in his head. All signs of humanity and life are lost. He will join them, keeping watch.



Was it so wrong to lie in the rain on those glass streets, watching the workeist pass by, struggling with slacks of stone. Death was the most stimulating event that crossed the darkening clouds marking that imaginary line separating north and south. It was believed that placing those slacks of stone on top of the graves would prevent the souls from reincarnating and retaliating, and in some convenient fate they would, but not all in the belief that this method actually was the actual reason. Her husband found a couple days earlier, shallowly breathing on their bathroom floor, and now his shabby wooden case kit rode by on their shoulders. The almost burning orange staining that had not completely dried, the circular lines that defined the age of the oak tree by which it was made.
She stared shamelessly, creating a somewhat demonic almost luring attempt with her eyes at the men pacing back and forth with a mechanical rhythm without acknowledgment to the environment around. Her stomach cradled awkwardly between her thighs as she sat onto the icy cold ground, oddly enough she had carried her child full term and many months after. Maybe it too had died; gliding her fingers over the smooth and tightly resistant flesh, searching for signs of life. She waited openly in the courtyard. Holding that last hopefully painful cigarette, her fingers pressed hard against her pelvic: lub-dub, lub-dub. Thinking how great it would be to

Ink was stained on the tips of my fingers, the dark lines that marked my smile were covered in medium brown foundation, my dark brown shoulder length hair pulled back with contraptions of pins and ribbons leaving strands to fall "hiding" the less favorable side of my face.

I felt alone, needing a space to enclose myself as the arid breeze cut through my cold tears.
Some questions were not worth asking as I grew up in the restricting walls of the cathedral. Although for the hoping trill, of predictable disappointment I would ask anyway, and feel my already shallow heart hanging on that unsteady scale fall to my stomach. No matter what attitude it's variety or combination of presenting my argument, it was rejected without even releasing my mid-words. I felt patronized, a feeling that burned at my heart slowly until seldom nights I would break into tears.
My uncle's maid approaches me just before my temperance is lost.