Floyd

Drops of black ink tears vanish into green paper fibers, blown away in sharp smoking threads, red like the heads of lit sulfur matches, drawn across the desk's deep notches, the freshly cut ethereal wounds, flaring up just one more...

All beings in these villages come from long lines of fishermen and shipbuilders. Their souls live in the rotten woods of the black, salt-encrusted huts. In the cold smoke of burnt onycha shells. In the murmur of the half-petrified...