Feel like writing

The door opens.
"Who's there?"
The door shuts.


Eyes with red waters, waves of bright white, purple and green flying on your lovely face. I remember it so well, we stoped, I gave you a scarf.

The guy stays motionless at his Braille computer(what the fuck is that?), listening. Someone entered the room. He can feel it (can you feel it?). Tiny steps. Baby steps. But not a baby, a person walking with baby steps. Some murmur.
"Who's there?"

We were 18, we were Beatles fans, we had white snickers and our hair smelled like spring. The colours were playing hide and seek, were fighting with the wind, your face was lightened by the bright white, your skin smelled like apples.

"Ok, who the fuck are you?"
Baby steps, in that corner. Something hitting the wall. Again. Murmur, murmur, murmur.
"I have a knife!"
He does not have a knife, why would he have a knife? But there's no light in the room, (why would it be?), so that person in the corner can't see him well.
"Who are you?"

I was whispering, I love your nightgawn, could you give it to me as a memory of you? You were sleeping so pretty, the night was so deep, I was keeping a watch on your dreams, but I will need your swimsuit too, i need to admire you with and without your swimsuit.

That thing in the corner getting closer. He can hear it closer and closer. Those fucking baby steps! They drive him crazy.
"Who the fuck are you?!"
Closer and closer. A few feet away. Smells like a 5 days dead wet dog. Murmur. He reaches his hand in anticipation. Feels the face.
"Son? What kind of joke is this?"

You can buy me with a coffee, I'm so cheap.

His son bites his hand. Pain.