Oliver Lewis

“The door in a nook of a stone bridge led me to grandly decorated passages, candlelit. Eerie and beautiful all at once. I became increasingly anxious as I breathed in, out, my air out into the air of the passageway, and the passageway’s air entering me.
A cycle of life in stone.
Salty, bitter air.
Like a night-sweat.
Like insomnia.
You wake, sweating and you are paralysed and sweat.
You lick your upper lip (not such a stiff upper lip now), and that is what you taste.
The sweat of stone, the sickly-sweet decorum of history on the palette.”
― Oliver Lewis, Celestial Angels: a collection

“I’ve always wanted a house in the country. Here and now, I have one. The door’s hinges squeak and the floorboards creak. There is a soft scent of sandalwood and bergamot. On the crisp awakening of the morrow’s morning, I will brew freshly ground coffee and allow it’s bitterness to warm my insides. My mind is buzzing with stories, the ones I conjure, the ones I have already conjured, and the ones I have yet to conjure, in the fragrant Spring air, on the patio, in my wooden rocking chair.”
― Oliver Lewis, Celestial Angels: a collection