Apparently I wrote this about seven months ago, then completely forgot about it. I wish I could remember what I was on.
fractious glittering of the sharded chandelier, gloaming red light puddling in canned-cranberry lumps in every corner. He was small like a sowbug, could have edged-muddled himself through the jungley ashed carpet to the crack beneath the door as she closed it, but he was pinned through the thorax by her perfume, wet and reeky. What webs were woven into the black flocked velvet wallpaper and the crocheted afghan? Her hair, that she curled around the fingers of too many hands?
"Welcome," the word pushed out between carmine teeth by a thick black liquid tongue. "I am the Decade."
