¥ The tree azalea overwhelms the evening with its scent, 
defining everything and the endless fields.

Walking away, suddenly, it slices off and is gone. 

The visible object blurs open in front of you, 
the outline of a branch folds back into itself, then clarifies—just as you turn away—

and the glass hardens into glass 

as you go about taking care of things abstractedly
one thing shelved after another, as if they were already in the past, 

needing nothing from you until, smashing itself on the tile floor, 
the present cracks open the aftermath of itself.

By Martha Ronk 
A Blurry Photograph ¥
 

Sorry for not posting any new chapters for any of my stories. I have been quite busy, but I will try to post a chapter for a story almost every week. I am editing all my stories, I have already done one, Please come back to me, is done. I will do the otheres as well because I do not like how the story is coming togther. So please give me some time to do what I have to do before writting a new chapter or anything. I shall keep you posted.