The sky was a pale shade of gray. Little droplets of rain hit the windows. Breathing in the steam from their coffee, they stood. Grabbing a open sketchbook, they sit back in a corner of the room in between two windows. They put on a somber yet calm playlist on their phone and started to draw. They drew mountains with dragons, and water dripping off the leaves of flowers into little puddles below. They drew black skies and brightly colored rain. They wrote of epic quests with magic and mystery. They wrote of happiness, sorrow, and pain. They wrote and drew. It didn't matter right then that they were alone. It helped.
They knew that in some time and place their stories would come true, maybe the day they were written, maybe a thousand years after. Perhaps a million years before.
No one would believe them if they told people their stories were real, even if it was just in someones dreams. All they did was draw, read, write, and wait. Wait for the stories about them to come true.
YOU ARE READING
Nothing important
عشوائيJust a bunch of songs and other shit that pops into my brain
