punchedtoast

At one time, there was a city beyond the Great Mountains. The city was proud, everything had its place. In the middle of the city was the State Headquarters. Its grey walls were sharp and crisp, fresh and real. It stood strong, but in a way that received respect without forcefully demanding it. Violet lawns sat perfectly groomed in front of pure white townhouses. These houses belonged to the city. There were twenty-four sitting perfectly in a row, exactly identical to one another. In each house was a mind and his family. In house number seven, there was a man, his wife, and two children. Like many of the people in the city, the man had come

I love the way Fabric drapes Over the archaic arches of 1930s architecture. So when we turned My downtown apartment Into a blanket fortress, I was thrilled. We cushioned ourselves from the sounds of our neighbours, Pushing them to distant cities, Trapped in radiator catacombs With cigarette smoke and steam. The smell of your hair lingered under the bed sheets. Childhood cotton Strewn from armoire to desk to chair, Weighted with books and other heavy things. Concealed lamps created a cavernous lantern, Warm with light and our words; Spoken just above a whisper. Now those sheets hang in rigid lines On their soft surface In a