"You are something else aren't you?"
A curious window all blue and bright. She would look up at me with inquisitiveness to such an extent that I could feel her questionings pulse through me, through fixated shallow blood. In the mornings she would ask me to close the blinds, we would stare through stunted light; being uncovered would always be out of the question. If I was to lift the window that was littered to heaviness by the dust of each stale morning, I would grasp out accross the roof and swing the pure clarity of the clouds back inside and over her naked face.
"I can't help you."