I used to dream about the late November Lady until Sandy killed herself. Sandy wanted to kill her daughter and then she killed herself. And it was a slow suicide, just like the brave ones usually do. They all arrive the same, but those who are worth it are those who leave in a different way. There's only one way to get there and thousands to go. I know a few, but that doesn't mean the others don't exist. The true brave are not those who live life, living is overrated, my friend, the true brave are those who know they have nothing more to give, and decide to go off the path. Sandy would run away and sometimes I couldn't find her. His labyrinthine mind was good for the hide-and-seek. Like the fog, she dissipated with the first ray of sunshine. There are no more late November dreams and all the piano melodies are still sad.
YOU ARE READING
I.C.U
General Fiction"Debbie Harry and Kurt Cobain; Luca Prodan; a city that burns; a freckled girl who leaves; a war on a mysterious island and a cursed writer are the flashes that run through the mind of a teenager who suffered a motorcycle accident."
