Acinciturk3
From Create Your Own Story
having procured it outside of legal regimes from the 1796 submerged forest, you examine closely now with your right finger the chalk-villi bandaged across the wall, turning slowly to wintry templates across the landing. its texture, which pinches your fingers as it falls away, reminds you of deep-fried and stale food. since an immemorial date, it's been petrified as an impasto sculpture enveloping an unlit staircase at the far corner of the pinkish room.
the air is fresh and still outside, which you now assume forecasts a storm. over the week the sun has glinted menacingly wrapped in volumes of impassable clouds and has billeted torrents of steam towards your clothes-line preventing anything from drying outside and making you very cold. you meant to bring the clothes in, but as a creature of habit you haven't brought yourself to do anything particularly constructive over the past week, preferring to stay inside and painting fresco panels for your own amusement.
