with a mere glimpse of the ceiling fan, she feels the wind piercing through her paper skin, it clutches through the depths of her very own existence.
her hands are pricked with needles and sorts as she begin to fiddle my blankets, the arguments living inside her melancholy head, louder and louder.
oh how depressing it can be. her lonesome tired eyes, wanting to collect dreamy rest which she cannot omit.
weary legs that she cannot move.
heavy breathing that she cannot ease with.
locked in the being of a late sleeper, with her soul trapped in a tired being. her eyelids starts falling though her being is awake.
how she wished that it could be.
falling into a sleep for million of years.
not being able to wake up - not even a second.
oh how magical it could've been, if she took her sleep.
being whisked away from her trembling reality and go wondering in the land of her very own wonderland.
being able to feel improvement within herself.
