Man with Blue eyelashes

I. Electric lights flicker to the sound of a drawer closing shut on a ring finger. Dark fire in the nearby iron stove survives despite of the absence of clumsily chopped wood. Deep creases in the lampshade sift through gold. A phosphorescent lamp's cord black with emotions of crimson (blood) hangs tightened, still rapidly banging against my brother's computer desk. 2. A carpet with squares made from empty-sky and white is folded in front of your family's portrait, showing you the light blue on your eyelashes that drips off like mom wasn't supposed to sit in front of the plastic globe, like you can hear your beige metronome ticking on top of your brother's hundred-year-old piano. But only the clock hands move, only the windows you look out from behind your waterfall.