His name isn't Death

I was supposed to leave for London two days a go. Walk the streets where I was turned into what I am now. But Chloè is pale, feverish and sad. So I'm trying to gather some aulturism, some sort of motherly love and take care of her. No friend or lover would leave such a fragile little sparrow on her own. So I'll stay in white sheets and a cloudy apartment where dreams are easily mistaken for reality. I'll stroke her hair and tell her that she will be all right. This isn't the decade of the black death although it sometimes feels like it. The sweat on her back will dry out and her temperature will go down. But untill then, I'll stay by her side like a soldier armed with care and love.

A black crow has been visiting us for the last couple of days, he's claimed the balcony his and returns with cadavers every night. Chloé calls him Death, says he's here to collect her soul. French girls, so dramatic, so fragile. So beautiful. His name isn't Death, he's just a symbol of our decaying souls.