Branches of lilac sleep in the winter, but the red heart cooks stewed thoughts and feelings.
Her house was always a place for black coffee and pepper. Pepper warms the throat and runs out the salt.
She could not open and close the channels, but saw flashes of light and dark blue worms when closed her eyes.
Everyone thought that she had not all there. But house had a lot of people. They sat with closed faces at the fire and smoke rose.
She fed herself with their energy, like a vampire, and when everyone was getting cold, her hands burned in the table. Everyone had no clue.
Music was not fond of this house. She locked her in a room and never let out even on a porch. Dying music left a wreath of orchids that smelled like dampness. She loved the smell of dampness, considering that in past live she lived in a bunker on the Mediterranean.