Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
✟Expect anything from anyone;
the devil was once an angel.✟
--- *** --- --- 2 Days Later --- --- 31st of October, 1964 ---
Within the elapsing days which lurched at snail's pace, the more you spent sleepless starless nights even though you were back at work after your friends explained to your boss about your false imprisonment in the ill-famed mental hospital against your will. The quantity of sheer, natural caffeine's consumption, staining thickly your ivory enamel and greased grouts-clad coat swaddling hideously your teeth, affecting your health condition of muting the inner voices to wrench shut your eyelids for awhile like a half an hour or so were taking a toll on you.
The plum, cured bruises which once baptized hideously, brawnily your arms and legs were initiating to be blanched-clad smoothly grained after the adequate treatment, no longer resided hypodermically your flesh and perpetually ebbing off its unspeakable consequences of the bar fight.
The medley of the haunting shadows and demons of the lusciously insatiable kiss which you shared with the former sleazy nightclub singer, the delicate touches of the ambitious Monsignor grazing with his delicate fingertips and pads of his virginally strong fingers your flesh, the insomnia were numbing your intentions of collecting sufficient quantity of rest throughout the daily episodes. It has been three days since it was the last time when you've crawled emphatically to snap shut your eyes for a few hours or minutes at least. It has been a few days since you've seen whether Frederic, Dana or Barb even though you're about to behold them tonight on the house party over Dana's two-story mansion.
Whilst you're venturing to finish your shift up to the wee hours of the evening, the waitress's iris cotton apron embroidered your torso, indicating your current occupation and belong to the facility's staff, one of your co-workers warily carried a tray with freshly boiled lemon tea and a plate of lusciously insatiable slice of pumpkin cheesecake ventured unintentionally bumping into your figure, flinching in tandem waltz as he dropped unintentionally clumsy his tray with its shattered on cluster of marbled pieces plate and glassy segments, maliciously botching the lavishly silken indigo carpet.
"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread and so I come to you, my love, my heart above my head. Though I see the danger there If there's a chance for me, then I don't care!" Fools Rush In by Ricky Nelson was recently droning with sufficiently enhanced decibels as the vocalist's eloquence in the song's lyrics was entertainingly unknotting every surrounding's nerves, in order to bring themselves on the dance floor with their discretely authentic dancing moves, generally improvised and enabling their muscles to deform even twirl in the dance, barely wrapping their minds around the binds and ghastly issues. Further, the other rational motive the music in the restaurant was fascinatingly entertaining and unsettling merrily every customer after a tough day at work or school was eavesdropping the delightful tunes of music, tugging vaguely prim smiles at their mouths and twirling and swirling the smiles motionlessly with jaws' flexes instead of listening the appalling, merely common soundtrack of their coworkers or problematic acquaintances bugging them off with their own shenanigans and fiery complaints.
