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☢ One step too late
And I never told you ☢
--- *** ---
--- The Next Morning ---
--- 2nd of December, 1964 ---
As soon as the new refreshing day became a victim of the sunrise's vibrantly profound, golden lull, each elapsing second of passed at summer breeze's elegantly feather-soft pace, subsequently the pious woman of the cloth got up and was getting ready to pack her luggage in a few detached suitcases that fluctuated between neatly folded attires and lingerie, sinfully tantalizing cosmetics, her remarkably precious paraphernalia and pairs of shoes smartly sorted inside the cryptic large entities.
The early December dimly cloudy sun's ominously unyielding attempts to mount up the horizon and to be exquisitely spotlighted even if it was villainously outnumbered by sea of lifelessly sooty-silver clouds manifesting its creamy ghostwrite slowly but surely, the vague divinely gilt, demanding saturation streamed bountifully weak through the open-curtained window of the austerely ambient office of the blonde. The early December Boston days appeared to be chillier even than the mid-November ones. The wee inkling of the forthcoming astronomical season and its relentlessly vindictive iciness unceasingly rumbled up to alter the climate and abating the sunny, balmy days. The astronomical season that cusped the autumn and the winter in a potently intensifying bond spine-chillingly imperiled to diminish the quantrum of nobodies who were brave enough to populate the outdoors' sunshine luxuriously gilded translucent carpet.
Solely the warriors that had mandatory obligations to attend regularly prominent institutions like school, workplaces and so forth were the only warriors that ghosted the very streets and outskirts of Boston in the wintery days. Every day their hectic daily schedule could fuel utterly their cells and muscles with inexorably doubtless burden of stress and chaotic business and hauling out their unimaginable intentions of taking a brief break even if they channeled their frequent flickers, conveying its friendly reminder to not outwear their fleshy tissues. Every day was a new day for more refreshing inspirations, celestially dazzling ambitions and a wonderfully bright aim to articulate fluently their real motives that accorded them to pursue eagerly their divinely heavenly desires and raw foreign realm of their objectives.
"The notorious drug cook of Silver Spring, Maryland under the name Cole Derek Lowe, aged fifty-four, is found dead inside an abandoned brothel in one of the most isolated neighbourhoods of Boston!" In the meanwhile, the radio lowly hummed the exceeding breaking news about the hair-rising homicide of Cole Derek Lowe, pitching the background and melding smoothly even outnumbering the despondently rowdy, blatant bewails of the inmates ghostwriting the long, dim light hallways of the old, dilapidating asylum. The head nun of the asylum managed to pose before wall mirror of her en-suite bedroom whilst fashionably primping studiously her physique and subconsciously mild swaying her swanly drop-dead gorgeous, well-sculptured hips rhythmically, all ears to the radio news. Most of all, her childlike earnestness to contact the exalted clergyman Father Malachi for her emphatic resignation from the church and banishing her out of the ecclesiastically sacred duties to serve the miserable cloth of chastity and solemnly marrying God physically and spiritually, canvased the very jovialness to be illustrated on her delicate facial attributes. A weak layer of make-up such as conservative mauve pattern painting her lusciously brim lips didn't hurt to doll up herself at all. It could be a significantly luminous twinkle of her victorious motive to be ultimately fulfilled today and savouring the heavenly freedom of joining the general population to date somebody and spend the rest of her days with her soulmate altogether in their own property and construct their own fresh start utterly as the initial bricks is the true hint of the beginning they accorded as well.
