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Weekly Contest #269
I sleep low to the floor, collecting things on my windowsill. It too is low. I can lay on my futon and rest my chin on the dusty wooden ledge. This place used to be a convent. Nuns roaming the halls, kneeling in their blue-grey habits. Up the hill they walked to Saint Sophia's, the church and the school. They would have loathed the heir to their inheritance. Me, lazy and godless, staring blankly out the window. Me and my hoard of treasure. Alter to something ungodly. I count as I laze: thirty-three used Ikea tea candles in the...
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