adrenaline-fuck

This has rotted in my private locker for years. That cold bedroom in Château de Lancosme. Third floor. Tapestries reeking of mold. Shadows dancing from gargoyles outside. Heart pounding from the grenier noises. Armoire banging like something trapped inside. Céli and Ganja heard my ‘talk’ with the voice. We laughed it off. Fatigue. Imagination. But…