Stone soul who wonderingly gazes down on a tide of falsehoods, unfeeling stone who does not feel the deep winter’s cold that destroys the flesh, and sears the eyes.
She sees the lights and the bustle of the city that never dies; yet not living herself; she only knows of dust and ashes rising from the Seine, and the blowing snow.
Scratching granular across the page; ink attaching at the molecular layer to mush paper fibers, bleeding at the feathers into the next line.
Dusty sharp pen scrawls push scent smells up and into my memories. Proust has nothing on mould, pens, papers and forget his damn madeleines.
Candles flickering at the corners of the page, dim lights turning my scrawling into mere shadows, fading from the light, dimly bleeding away.
Can we catch our tears before they drip from the page, and fall as ink into dust?