On a bleak and sunless day she walks down streets dotted with puddles, an open notebook in hand, seeming not to notice the world passing her by.
On a moonlit and tear-filled night she howls at her companions, the stars, drenched in guilt and sorrow, and willing away the present.
In the dawn of a new day she sits on the rooftops, singing her heart away in the hopes of seeing the light once more.
But where is there light, and where is there sound, in her world so bleak, longing to be found?
She weaves the tales of sunny days and spring rains in hopelessly wandering ways.
Who is this "She", you ask and ponder, but that is meant for you to wonder.
YOU ARE READING
A Never-ending Circle
RomanceShe. Just she. She exists among whispers and sounds. She exists among colors and time. Who is she?
