Thursday, February 12, 2009

The language of love letters is the same as suicide notes.




I've seen her before and I remember how awkward her walk was... Though, I applauded her for her style, I never really saw what was so attractive about her. A bland face that gave off a ghost look, maybe. Every thing around her was colourful but with her presence, that could change so quickly. I wondered what was wrong with her... She was hiding something so dreadful from the world and it slightly showed in the most blundering and artless way. Through shades of gray, occasional black and white.

The only thing that showed colour was something that would pass by so expeditiously.

In traffic she stood there.