By Tony Myles
Days bleed together here, how many has it been now? The caged blue-green sun flickers unchanging overhead. As unchanging as the food, the isolation, the cold stone walls and floor. The sun burns cold and bright, humming like a quickened pulse, a slowly deafening yattering, if only I could silence it like…
My hands miss the softness of women.
Of their thighs.
Of their throats.
They’re never as beautiful, never as loved, as when my hands silence the wreckage of their flesh. Their beautiful silence.
If my hands cannot silence the sun, can they silence me instead?
You can find Tony Myles at his website http://www.painterofdarkness.com/