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Image of the quote is loading... SaveSave The locals died and shrivelled with the autumnal leaves as their plastic, seasonal smiles faded with the last of the holidaymakers. - Quote by Moonshine Noire

The locals died and shrivelled with the autumnal leaves as their plastic, seasonal smiles faded with the last of the holidaymakers.

Moonshine Noire
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you're the fly on the wall hearing all, seeing allears of a wall hearing all the secretsperhaps you're the vines creeping over the old abandoned mansion wallsdusty, soulless and deadbringing a certain curious life to rubbleand I think you're the jewel-eyed geckosneaking around the warm summer wallsbetween jasmine and olive branchessticky pad toes, clinging to the wallspeeking in at lonely summer spicy love-makingthrough silk curtains from the bright orientbreathing in incense and tasting decadenceclimbing the sharply barbed wallsthe smooth cemented white-washed wallsbecause walls breathe too
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It was one of those sweltering summer days in which the air itself seems to decline as a haze suffocates the outside world. It is painfully bright whether you are looking up at that ball of burning hydrogen or down at its vivid reflection on sheer pavement.
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The ocean cradles the bloodied moon in its aquatic arms like a mother holds her crying babe.
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A radiant full moon of silver hangs in the black sky, between the veils of misty clouds.
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I could be the ceaseless mist that fogs your colourless eyes when you're lost in your universes.
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She loves filming and taking photographs. I can imagine her making beautiful films in France or India or somewhere with a gorgeously colourful culture. She somehow reminds me of my favourite place in the world, she and Paris I can romanticize and immortalize in ceaseless poetry for the rest of my life.
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Is it all just a psychotic dream? What is life?
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Sometimes it can be as brutally overwhelming as a tidal wave flooding every orifice, the suffocation, the pressure, the immensity of this damnable depression like an ocean, unsurmountable. It swallows me whole and gnaws at my very bones. It floods me over and over, drowning me over and over... It is a torturous broken record player with a scratched disc on repeat, the wailing disrupting any possible good remaining after the tsunami. It wails and wails inside my ribcage and inside my skull. I cannot make it stop.
Moonshine Noire
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