The blood of dreams is transparent. Stains on the floor, on clothes or faces. Dreaming red and black when the night is long, slipping into the shadows. Dreams bleed without cause, empty their veins. A suicide in transparent blue. No trace of the words or sounds. Here and there an image still shimmering, its darkness glowing. The body is lighter now, bones swaying in the wind, grasping the sun for balance. It’s harder to walk in the day, without blood, without color. Moving along with the crowd, crossing streets, sitting in the restaurant. There won’t be any orders today; the lights are off, the tables cleared, the sun already set.
Andrea Moorhead
Picture Rupert Loydell
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