A very distant self-collecting distant fragment-shape, a sort of supernova in reverse without the heat, assembles somewhere in the vicinity of his now-vacant chest. These are missing words looking for a maison for the nuit , perdu among the breezes and extinguished lights of this un-electric neighborhood.
Jacob is not alone, as the perdu words spell themselves above his coeur and its beating almost stops. He is going to take a Sentimental Journey, or semimental, it is not so sure...
Tear-struck, this distant colored soul-ribbon attempts to twist and wring itself out. Dryness is important in the void; get wet and it takes you days to dry properly.
