Your veins share a portion of ruthlessness with my rib cage. My blackened lungs. A certain unwavering determination to spit in the faces of those who dont beleive in you. Your hands grew lines a long time ago, etched by Arabic scribe. Fine lines that tell of only dark things. Fairy Tales of laughter, inside … More

Perfectly Faceless

I remember sitting on a bench in the London Underground, sipping on a Starbucks coffee, and watching the people pass me by, almost in slow motion. The fine details in their clothes, their hands, their body language, the lack of eye contact, and the energy that trailed behind them like a rainbow of tell-tale signs. … More Perfectly Faceless