Antiseptic
There was something almost sterile, she thought, in the way he kept his silence.
Splayed out on the floor like this, bruised and broken into little china shards. White as paper stamped with red sealing wax, a stamp of inevitability. Was she more or less colorful than two drops of ink in an ashen face? Was she more or less wearisome than the deep trails mapped beneath his eyes?
Is this not a dream?
...this is not a dream?
Black bleeds to sunset, a red floor with little black dancers twirling around, and the dream is only beginning.