A tight, tired smile. Downturned eyes. A hand brushing a cheek.
A woman who looks like you, who might once have been you, holding a blue rose.
The ghost of a candle flame, guttering in the gloom.
A table, smooth, possibly metallic. On the edge: something pink or yellow, alive. Looking more closely: a maggot.
The eyes of someone who has seen little, imagined too much.
Screens shedding light on spectral faces, machines ministering in corridors, a grey lump ticking and snapping in a sneering skull.
Nothing, just a silvered surface, indifferent as ice. Nothing, still nothing.
Her laughing mouth, lips curling with mirth and mild cruelty. In the background: a door opening onto darkness.
A roomful of collapsed cocoons. Something smudges the light, panics in little flutters.
A tensed hand with nails like claws.
A cheek, a shoulder, impossibly smooth. Barely moving, or perhaps not at all. A curtain moving in the breeze from the open window.
A shoal of fish with serrated mouths and luciferous eyes, gulping thick black water, spiralling, turning, dissolving.
An open book, a blank page. A face, probably your face, stooping to see.
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