And when it came to feelings; it felt like a drowning, violent, lukewarm sleep.Rowland's body and his mind were torn apart as one part of him turned into two as if they were always that way. Blurring this line between that word that defines what is real and what is not on a universal scale that made him feel small and insignificant through a long standing process. Stripping him of himself as if he were a mere blood orange, and just then, he swore he could tell where his existence stopped and where This existence began, surpassing his comprehension and seeping into this world, which was for some reason unquestionable in it's deafening silence,...it didn't make sense but it didn't need him to believe as it stood strong alone,... It sort of gave him the same feeling one might get when they see an old mountain, great and ancient. His body was simply a doorway, falling past and through a threshold and simply fell into This place like acidic gelatine ripping his bones from his very soul, s

That off-beat question and the like left them staggering from their champagne spangled fox trot and had put a stigmata in Rowland's words. Moments that blurred between the chronological lines of the moments after coming to.He wanted to apologize in any way that he could, but to say the word "sorry" just didn't feel as if it retained it's meaning over the years. Rowland himself has heard it from so many faces from memory. But usually people say it to shut someone up, then being right just never felt as satisfying as they would say.It helped however at times from the right people, he just didn't know if he was the right person to Nick.It was just a thought, but it just goes to show that you could stop wars with good weed, it smelt like damn good weed too. So tempting to Close his window and hot box as Nick drove fast and through the smoke. But that was before his nose clogged, Rowland laughed to himself sorrowfully.Why where they doing this to each other? Why did it hurt so fucking

Rowland fancied himself doughnuts yet he was still so far into his own head that he was already out the door as he sat on the dusty wood paneled floors, and once he focused on food, he couldn't even recall what he was thinking of before it. He was just sitting and watching paint dry as he tried to remember.Standing up in front of his large canvas with the further, pong, clink and ting of empty aerosol cans among large paint spluges on the floor and on cans and broke away from his thoughts as he quietly looked around for a T-shirt, somewhere...He then put on his sneakers, grabbed his keys and a jacket and started thinking about waffles and ice-cream.Settling in his car, he fixed the popped collar of Nick's dark denim jacket that which was accompanied by a jingle of familiar and now often used keys; Nick's jacket of course, still held the scent of burning roses. Now, it wasn't so much the fact that it was Nick's scent but more the fact that the smell alone was, soothing to Rowland mu

A nervous wreck when he was alone, even so on how nervous he was when he first arrived here alone having not learned the language, at first the only real word he needed to use was "gratzi" as a black car drove him to Nick's supposedly casual location as they talked on the phone about his arrival whilst he subconsciously bit the skin off his own lip. But whenever Nick left and Rowland couldn't ignore the silence he would decide to stop looking out the window in otherwise comfortable hiding and actually explore with his new smart phone camera almost absent mindedly to his own linguistic plight and stress in general; that when faced with others, he would haphazardly mix the words that which he knew in Italian with Latin; earning looks from locals as if he was a loon, and that was just this one time for a chocolate chip chocolate gelato in the hopes that he wasn't the only one who could see the problem with this instance. Awkwardly sticking to English like the well dressed and lonely tour

Detective Saint-Jermaine then continued with a calculated yet grim tone; "Are you aware, that Miss. Jackson-Wyte has been missing, found dead as one of the victims of the fifteen skeleton murders, just last week?", she then unclipped and tossed an autopsy report as well as a few pictures of dried up flowers in on dried up white zombies Rowland could only hope to delete from his memories, all neatly numbered and taken from analytical close ups in some frames which did him the favour of helping him spot the wilting deep dark red spider lily about the hollow cackling face of a chipped and crooked toothed skelington in the left eye socket; a screen saver worthy picture no less and pointing straight at the camera...Mocking his every effort of evasive action...The second buzzing florescent light flicked back on...Rowland still couldn't quite process what detective Saint-Jermaine had just said as he furrowed his brow in confusion... He couldn't compute, he didn't want to, system glitch, h