one.

this is a story.

he had a dream last night. something about a murder.

a man walking down Collins Street at 8: 56pm, followed by a shadow for one block, then between the fantastically themed display windows of Hermes and the non inspiring leather bags of Bally he was knocked unconscious from behind.

Hermes has a taste for drama when it comes to their window display, this time is the story of ballerinas clothed in their signature scarves. Stupid name that nobody can pronounce with their fucking scarves, he thought.I'll be late.

it didn't even hurt. he felt a resonance in his head, maybe it's coming directly due somewhere outside, far away from the depth of the oceans, but at the same time a sound so imminent and close that his ears fail to capture.

then Mr. Kenichi found himself awake in his own bed at 6:14 am, completely soaked in sweat. It was a comfortable moment, like that which immediately follows an orgasm.

Shit, I was murdered. Mr. Kenichi stared onto the white ceiling of his Dorcas St. apartment. It felt great.