Evaluating The Headphones

He pressed his fingers into her thoughts. He infused different hues of sadism into her memories. If she’d scream he still remembers her.

She had crashed into silence the last time he remembered her voice.

Are You Afraid of Me, Child?

[A Prayer for those we forgot to invite to the Christmas Celebrations, yet again.]

Someone had whispered a scream in my ears. Its fragrance lingered like a sunflower in a wintry dusk. Like a fallacy. When music came we transformed it to a sonata and planted it in a flower pot.

Our life was a radio station that played Gothic music, forever, after we lived.

Mass

I wrote my screams on a piece of paper. Distributed evenly on either sides. One of the sides would weigh more than the other.