he sits in a broken throne that is no longer his own. he knows it is broken, though it is not yet. people stare; their curious eyes are fixed upon him, at every angle, on every inch.
they long to reach and cling and claw; to cut away his satin sheets; to see what lies underneath. aloof, his eyes remain downcast, firm on the floor, trying not to be self-conscious.
he cannot bring himself to smile, only let himself be led, aimlessly led in one direction, then another. there's a ghost around his neck, hung like a noose (and he misses that scent of jasmine)
one more step is another stumble — and dizziness blurs what remains of his eyesight; a merry-go-round spinning circles of paradise eclipsed in vapour; he stops, he falters and —
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viii.
quiet forever, ivory blemishing grey, he glides to a dream.
