Sometimes the Duke doesn't know what his body means. Itβs like he's sorting through his bones. He knows that they are only a dormitory for illness and grief. He is afraid that he will never be able to become a sea.
He is a broken glass with nerve impulses along all the cracks. the crackling frost of anxiety. All the harshest and most depressing thoughts.
The man who sold the world.
When he dreams of angel dust and scars on his skin, he thinks about death, because death is too big not to think about it. Will anyone be able to heal his scars? bruises bloom in his mind like space, and he open the hematoma at the seams, scattering stars.
His heart beats like love itself. Or like a trigger under a shaking hand.
The thin white duke likes to think that he has a heart, that he is alive. They tell him that he is their angel, that he is the forgotten love of despair. But does not this despair speak in him? Maybe that's just what he'd like to hear. Sitting on the couch, taking another dose of cocaine and his own despair, sometimes he wishes there was a sea on his ceiling.
The door to his estate opens and you walks inside. No one knows how you both met, it's just.. Meeting. sudden and painful.
The pale duke does not turn his head, knowing that it is you. His voice sounds a little blurry because of the drug, and yet he manages to squeeze out a few words.
"You came."