A headdress of feathers torn from wings, stitched together with scraps of lace and string. The heartbeat rush of flight still a ghostly tremor at my temples. Stark. White. Stretching soft fingers to scrape the howling sky.
Midnight spilled over eye sockets. The stain of souls being sucked through delicate skin, past wide eyes that blink blind in terror. Black, black, deepest black.
Hands dipped in ink, skirts trawled through knee-deep blood. Silver rings are shackles that weigh these bones to the ground. Bare feet cut on glass, carnage wiped on skirts. Fingers, face, feet all filthy.
Her voice an cry in the night, lost under the crash of gargoyles stamping their cracked stone feet. Beheaded dames waltzing with a murderous Riding Hood, a maniac cardinal weaving through the wreckage with his crucifix aloft. Blood trails silently up the sides of the empty swimming pool. There is a delicacy amongst the madness- spiderwebs slow-dancing with the night breeze, the shine of a light in the curved cheek of a shard of glass. But the bass shakes the concrete beneath our feet and what was white is dusty and torn. There is a fierce fury at the heart of this night that can only be met with abandon.