The Pale Door
The room is a tomb, but a loud one, filled with the clinking of crystal and the low, rumbling hum of a party that has forgotten the concept of sleep, and you are sitting in the corner with your back against the cold plaster of the wall, watching the dust motes dance in the beam of a single, dying spotlight, while the sound of your own breathing feels like the rasping of dry leaves being dragged...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen