http://slow.writerscafe.org/ExulansisCity The original writings of author ExulansisCity en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776350981 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 The voice that whispers for blood whIle it watches me fall to pieces. An account from the perspective of personified self harm http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ExulansisCity/1984401/ You are the hands of my clock. The beat of my heart. You breathe and my lungs are filled. You wake up and my eyes open. You are the words on my tongue, the thoughts on my mind.We were an eternity. We were a forever. Time stopped when I was in your arms, a greyscale Polaroid photo of bliss.But those .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ExulansisCity/1828934/ A letter http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ExulansisCity/1826537/ A (very) short comedic dialogue. Very rampus. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ExulansisCity/1826531/ A short story about grief http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ExulansisCity/1826529/ Why?Do you ever think about how much we ask that question? Out loud… or in our own minds. Because right now it is playing over and over in my thoughts. My mind is a scratched CD that keeps on repeating the same thing, struggling to move on but not able to.Why him? Why me?You always pity the v.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ExulansisCity/1826420/ Isn’t it funny, how we are drawn to death? How there’s that nagging feeling in the back of your head, that prompts you to run towards it, rather than to shy away like logic would have us do? Like that desire jump off a building, just to experience the fall, even though you already know i.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ExulansisCity/1826412/ They never tell you what it’s going to be like the first time you get caught in a rainstorm. The cold drops bouncing off the grey paved ground, turning ordinary cement into shining marble. And the scent of rain everywhere. Petrichor. The first person who can smell like that will be the one, I .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ExulansisCity/1826387/ A menagerie of words displayed on shelves as spoken, illuminated by the flickering flame that our whispers only seem to feed. Our eyes reflect dancing light as we grin and giggle, the midnight hour heightening our glee. We put our secrets in the window, it’s a fire sale, everything must go. We.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ExulansisCity/1826382/