I fear that this will be my last memory of you; your face pulses in and out of consciousness the image becoming a more intangible oblivion second by second. The person who was once so aesthetically educated was becoming as listless and desolate as I. We stay in six walls, though it's better to not leave. The androgynous angel watches you from above, cackling at your perpetual frustration. (I watch helplessly.) It's never too late. Your fermented bones bop to the beat, with every wrong intention in mind. My sanity dangles on the cusp of extinction, she mercilessly will continue to reprimand us. Your hands are cold and callused, a suggestive metaphor representing you. We peer through the glass, how refreshing it is! The delusion of life seems almost authentic. The trees leave me utterly breathless, as the deciduous maroon leaves flutter inches past my face. The crisp smell of November air teases my nose

I have no objections to remaining in our divine utopia. Who wants to look life straight in the eye, anyway?