Angels in pink silk shoes decorated with rosebuds wandered through the rooms. It was the house of a hanged man. The cat made every effort to appear elegantly bored.
A wheelbarrow of weathered skulls stood off to the side, white in the morning, lilac during the day, orange in the evening.
The muse was in the woods. She had handed me over to the firing squad. A blond light pervaded as softly as a piano playing.