She paints the moon





She paints the moon hanging in the black space, with the amount of money inside her, commanding my miseries. She can keep some kind of place of silent rule.

You will not believe how low the sound was.It was like the cut of a razor that must have sunk into the heart, and now had made her dead and the death seem like a loss in the heart, so that it failed absolutely.
She caught her own breath in the blue room, with the paper walls, and thick black lines cutting through the shapes of paper ghost’s in the storm lamp,And bit her lip.
He had been waiting just outside her door.
 Inside the heart that made her, the water of it is slow, the veins pulse gently in the soft skin, the faints should have her but the blood is full of spirit, like tonic dissolved in a blue polish, which are the marks upon her and the rivers that keep her.
I would shell. I would creep. I would fell.
He lit one match, and held it against the wood frame beside the door, dragged it across, and the flame burnt into the blackness and disappeared. He stepped one loud boot across the doorway, then sniffed with derision and went away.

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