My perfect witching dream
is you waving at me
from across the old hall
of that very old train station
where we once met
when Dystopia had not
eaten up our souls yet
and we would meet there
with other people all around
their voices and their laughter
and we would not care
just running onto each other
and showing each other
what wounded bits and parts of us
this world has left.
„I imagine him smiling at me“, I tell my witch.
„Yes“, Layla agrees. „He seems messed up enough to smile himself through this weird shit of a universe.“
Mistress witch writes 