gray room.

 she clung to him, and as the sense of anointing joy that usually showers her at his touch kicked in, she drew in a deep breath.

 They walked out side, rapped in there coats and shawls, admiring the shimmering coat of snow, and slowly sipping there coffee,  he was most intelligent, and most lonely, unless he was with her.

I cannot begin to speak of these two as if they were your ordinary she and him, they were your classic transgressive fellows of society. The outcasts.

She was a lady, with a habit, of sniffing white powder, and he was the man of the house, the provider.

And in there lucid moments of day dreaming, in there bake yards in her white gown in his blue collerd shirt, they would stair ant the wonders of nature, the blue bird, the green grass, the joys of life, slightly, without being fully present.

And in such moments, they would compose the worlds greatest positions, words and colors and note, endless notes, they were artists, with an edge.

don’t ALL artists have an edge?

But eventually the land of colors in which they lived, as all great things, came to an end.

There words were no longer words, the blue bird fled, and thee bake yard was hardly ever a yard, and there powder, tragically ceased to exist.

Her was no longer the intellect, she no longer the lady, a mere man and a mere women, mere helpless souls in the city of helpless, souls who were once the providers of all great things.