biographies

and then she said that she had started to see colours that never existed. in shapes that she had strung together on an old banjo and played into the early morning. she had greeted the grey and sullen city sky with their lack of being in a nonchalent way. she had played it out, again and again and she twirled out kaleidoscopic images to the gleam of a cracked and dirty mirror.

" We are all just broken pieces of a frozen lake but without any colours that are real. "

she said her hands were cold and that she wanted to go home. she told them that there had used to be a tree here, a long time ago and that it had something to do with a philosopher and some dream.
she listened and she cared but then she just closed her eyes and they were right.

it is always yellow when you close your eyes in the past.