The risen veins are ridges on his arm. On which, each hair that falls over them an endless breaking wave. Fingers clasp the handle of a quarter full mug. The air, like the coffee, neither warm nor cold. He lifts it again. He drinks.
Wow. Thank you so much for reading my short story. I decided to poetically describe my current situation on the couch because I alreadyposted about Boogrovquite recently, and have actually run out of topics to talk about on him.
I'm excited to get stuck into his album (EP?),Свет,since the only two tracks I've heard have both received Indie Shuffle posts.