C-Heads Magazine: nubivagant
nubivagant
ciel’, she said, that’s what the french call it, the ceiling of mother earth –
she looked up.
it was incredibly white from the red, the blue, the yellow; white as the sum of the spectrum, white as the desolation of something terminated. they were laying in a field of weeds, caressed by the blades of grass that were whistling away old secrets.
they were nowhere near lost and even further from found.
their only source of warmth was a petite roll-up cigarette, the smallest spark hardly staying lit in the soft rage of an autumn day. with summer gone, coldness was punishing them for dreaming a little further than the end of september.
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