Labyrinth Columns of rain rob me, drop by drop, of light in my eyes. The pavement gleams, a gallery of trees I wash away, colorless, beneath a multitude of silhouettes. This damp, spiraling world smells like a sketch in greasy graphite. The world descends in soaked sheets, houses melt away in a waxen painting. The warm fat of my skin joins coldly in a shiver, my moist ribs thicken into bars and steal my breath. This suffocating grey becomes my prison, the stone‑cold shroud of the drowned. Blood beneath my ribs cramps and pumps, mingles with the earth’s sludge for a sacred dwelling. I seem hopelessly lost. The sly death urinates around this vision of Escher, the maze self‑sufficient in its hopeless reflection. I am the protagonist.
