The walls weren’t just beige; they were a fever-dream of heat, vibrating with the sharp, rhythmic sound of clashing enamel.
“I wander the desolate halls night by night. A ghostly procession of the witching hour. Back and forth. I become the bone beige walls. But I am not beige at all. I am hot red flames. Black fury. And putrid green split with yellow. My insides ground.”
Full manuscript available for representation/publication enquiries.