We thought a simple note was just a black and white writing , a carte blanche with freedom to write. When we had come to the middle we realised our freedom was fake . We were hardly free to fill it the way we would.
We finally ended up with a lizard on the ceiling. And whatever we did to the carte blanche was so irrevocable. Like the quick tongue of the lizard on the insect. Like this sleep from which a change grew .A death on the ceiling in the softness of a new light.
An irrevocable narrative about a lizard and it’s quick flowing tongue. A tongue that says the most unexpected things and is irrevocable .
Fog 