A glass wall, almost.
Soundproofed, tinted from your side.
We share the spirit of your jasmine shrub, a feeble houseplant.
Intentional presence, neglected.
There is t h u n d e r striking my soul, elicited by your audacious remarks, ruinous conduct, surrendered humanity.
Every fibre of you, this house, haunted by your t h u n d e r, leaks it’s way into the holes left by what has been unlearnt, gladly forgotten…
s n a p.
I expect and am conditioned to this almost ethereal disappointment?
What the fuck?
This feeling of dread has always been easily erupted, and like forecasted rain, I expect short lived harmony.