The house was lit on fire, as requested. Chalk in your lungs, she said.
So dusty in there it was like chalk in your lungs.
A small explosion meant the end of another spray-paint can, pink stretching over ice of the side entrance like a sword.
We could have donated his books- it’s not like he could have found out, he said.
A crack from the kitchen ended with a spray of blue over the front deck.
He painted there? she said.
When was the last time you were here, he said, warming numb fingers by the burning house- sacreligious, maybe, but it was cold, and he didn’t believe in institutions.
A black explosion from the upstairs bathroom fell in spatters over the ashy snow.
It was definitely against some value somewhere to light a cigarette from the door-frame of your fathers old house.
Green from the TV stand blew against a window, staining an old frame with new colour.
I remember the first time I saw him painting in the workshop, she said.
I said that I liked the teeth and he let me draw the crown.