Many nights wasted waiting for storm clouds or at least a sign that he is still out there. Spoken in the rain, speaking even to the silhouettes slap bang in the spaces between the door & the raging storm that calls his name between thunderclaps. Milk white, bones crushed with sand, a nudity to stir even the most primitive fear. Even now----with Waterloo aches, strand babbling, homeless caws, he has nothing but a throbbing focus. Nothing, even, a name to speak.
❝ The smell of coming rain has power to it, nagahashi. ❞
( @koicapt // closed starter )


















