Glen

Traduire 13 années depuis

Cold Toes His feet were bare and his toes pointed towards the sky. The house was cold. Frigid. He looked to his right and saw the gray skies of December through his dirty window. He looked to left and saw his dusty wall, the color of a lawn in June; the grass burnt from the heat. He looked back at his toes. Cold. Frigid. He wished for warmth. For salvation. For socks. He arched his back. He tried to to rise. As he tried, the tentacles of slumber wrapped around him, pulling back to the musty sofa. He would not rise. He couldn't rise from the euphoria of his sleep. He didn't need warmth, salvation or socks. He was revived from the fire in his dreams.