He finished. Peeled the lemon away. The music from the spun
the evaporation of sound the music incongruent to this place. He finished. The slatted window view. A woman on the street walked with a man she held. She held an umbrella against the sun.
We are of the colorless dust the rages.
He kept the photograph. Argument against this tendency to leave. The less apt the less acute contact the plague of a woven of a linen. The music the broken Czech consonants in this this city once connected once broad once connected. Through its own separation apart against all argument. Wasted.
Noise. To the less initiate. To the closed. Less voweled. Coherent. Bricks painted white in a face to his. He will ache in the splendor. Adjust his right shoe continue. The cypress grown curved around its unseen intercessor. Its interlocutor. Another layer. The streaked tea the double boiled pot. Another layer its interlocutor. Divided bell. He said. ‘I do not have access.’ He said. ‘I would divulge spirits.’ With lithesome debt. Hung arms. The chanteuse diagonal to the reach. A claw accent of her single syllable drawn over casual fictions. He said: ‘Before I would advise you speak to him.’ He said. ‘Limit your conversation.’ He said. ‘But speak.’
She said. ‘I want to write about beauty.’ She said. ‘I want to write things as they could be.’
Author’s Bio
Michael Ricketti was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He is the cofounder with Sevdiye Ricketti of Kuruçeşme Projekt a community-based initiative that brings together artists and educators to provide programs and opportunities in Nicosia Cyprus. Michael works as a writer and instructor.