he is something neon in the works. a glowing diner sign which doesn't know whether to open or close. a mind with words and a mouth—a mouth, which has dabbled in the arts of existence and weeping willow trees in hollow swamps—that says nothing, but everything simultaneously.
surrounded by miasmas of gasoline breaths and carpets that haven't been washed for years, he smells like october breezes, end of september mornings. he has a mother that smells like spring, so maybe scents from seasons run in the family. his father had smelled like summer (but he hates summer now – burning rays and melting grape popsicles, bloody blushing knees and chlorine flooded eyes; a perfect mix for a perfect summer) with coppery cologne. no one knew what winter smelled like. (corpses, crows, disinfected wipes).
the woman on the top floor with crystal balls for eyes and thinks tying a butterfly's wing above your bed will get rid of the nightmares had said that he holds dreams in his hands. dreams? he had asked. yes. dreams. you hold them, you choke them. gods say that you are god of the dreams. it wasn't correct, but she seemed so passionate about it, he didn't want to interrupt.
god of the dreams. god of neon (#0000ff) dreams in smoke-filled alleys with broken exit signs and broken bottles. god of dreams? he never had dreams. this was a lie. what you are reading is a lie.
