Standing in the doorway of the bedroom, I take photos that will one day be as lost as the most distant stars in the sky. Y’know, the ones whose light has yet to reach us and probably never will. The room, cold and stale, is eerily quiet. In the beginning, our cries of fucking gave it life, but those brief days seem so tiny now. Like the particles of dust before the window moving about as if stirred by the poking finger of a ghost. We once linked fingers and spat in each other’s mouths. We danced to the beat of a Baphomets drum. There was an energy at play, a sharp, piercing energy that penetrated our flesh like the blade of a knife. Such pain made us feel alive. It licked us like the tongue of a flame, but those tongues have long since been plucked out. The memories associated with these moments are as clear as the snow falling outside, and like the snow, all they do is leave me cold. Scanning the dusty furniture, I catch my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. Part of me thinks I’ll never die, while the rest is already dead, yet to seek out the secrets of another brings me back to life each time.