Red. This time of year makes her miss home. Many roads led everywhere but few led back to where she came from. Motion sickness, but she can’t stop moving.
Forward. Incense. Burning.
She read. Characters, music, art. Muffled sound and blurry images. Happy birthday, darling. Again. It kind of felt like reverse, but in an odd way it was steering on. Pressing. Little pieces scattered and abandoned. She hadn’t meant to litter. It was just a bit easier to feel the sun on her skin when she stripped herself clean.
Staring for an indefinite amount of time. It changes shape. Give, give, give. Open your heart until it bursts. Relive. Live well. She built. Architect of Archetype. Pieces of herself reflected in the facades. Bricks. Throw, place, offer; restructure the building of self. She had provided the right tools.
Red. Her lips were red. Then her cheeks. Red was symbology. It was re(a)d between the lines.