Friday Mornings at University

The rhythm persists in the yellow room where the porcelain-girl grins with those chinaware-teeth, there's something devilish about it all, her hands entangled in glass, hot glass with steam billowing up to the nicotine-stained ceiling, that ancient light comes crying through the painted-shut window and the whole room begins to cry. don't taint my white-angel with your ultraviolet-rays! Oh, there's something devilish about it all, about her emaciated skeletal frame tacking-up the tigger child's blanket, how hauntingly she moves - a consciousness without agency, only a shadow of pills and addiction dictate her now, plucked from the university like a plush toy by my rusted claw of lofty fun and vices, now this ghost haunts the halls of my dreams as well as this four-walled, decrepit and stained studio-apartment.