Ink wash (ink on paper)

Winter and Games

Missed

Night

The dark black shadowy night, stretched tightly over deserted streets and empty doorways, stuffed between alleys, almost touching bumpers of parked cars, glittering dark black in the eyes of the lost people standing on December highways, silent between hosts of industrial sirens, riding with psychopaths in the accelerating cars, rattling in the purses of street-side vendors, interleaved in the papers of the lawyers defending serial killers, breathed into lungs with angrily puffed cigarettes, trampled under the feet by walking no ones, hanging by weak threads over social holocausts, is alive and on the horizon there is a tinge of vermilion.

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