For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror

Stretched between wakefulness and oblivion; identity's rebellion and sleep's persuasion; I fiddled with the bitter cold star inside me. Dead star with dead dreams at its core. Dead dreams and immovable dreams; kinds that do not collide to trigger life; warping and folding on themselves. Under the dead weights of their doomed expectations, they dived into the unknown dimensions of me. Wormholes opened into the unknown beings of me, unseen vistas, unexplored terrains and starry skies studded with unfulfilled desires. And in one such dimension even peace was within grasp. But in barged sunlight and the nightly multiverse collapsed into the day

On a pavement adjacent to the corridors of propriety, I shivered warped in dreams of flesh. An uncertainty of softness against that gritty hardness which had grown into me. And the timid warmth swept away by falling rain. What else could I extract from that poster? From that posture of suggestive modesty..... And in the corridors of propriety... Lost in the maze of shadows and light, my hands sought the luminosity of the billboard, soft light of flesh and yet freezing cold shadows were all that existed on that bed.