MeltingStar

I hate the white nights when their precious white moondust flows up the synthetic air. Their precious recipe for leading happy, luxurious lives; daydreaming sessions and subscriptions for the daily dose of diluted happiness in order to prevent lethal addiction. And then the rooms; red velvet and shuttered mirrors, distorted as if avoiding to look at the girl The old man's breath on the back of her neck, gasping, agonizing; his sweat filth on her face, the sinful tears the savior promised. She is dipped. In sin. And purity. for they often go together despite the phenomenal paradox. His thin, fragile fingers searching with lust, absorbing,