step out the front door like a ghost into the fog where no one notices the contrast of white on white
and in between the moon and you
the angels get a better view of the crumbling difference
between wrong and right
i walk in the air between the rain through myself and back again
where?
i don't know
maria says she's dying through the door i hear her crying
why?
i don't know
round here we always stand up straight
round here something radiates

Well, well, well. =D Rather unexpectedly, Painted Lady is back. I suppose I couldn't crush the urge to write - it makes your fingers itch, y'know?

My little mind is near bursting with twisted ideas to throw at you, so bear with me while I scrap away the writing rust. =)

Peace, love and herbal tea.