ashbran53
Beautiful seclusion, marred by a glass house. Wood faked, plastic mould of real life.
Shorthand is a disease. It's an incurable, horrific disease instilled into the minds of hopeless romantics. Report on this, report on that. Use shorthand to kill the writer, to mush the minds of innocents.
Two. No one, desolate and unnerving. A map of our steps, a to b. We're left without.
Frigid and shaking, standing on the border of that little line where sand meets water. The dry versus the nourished.
He had a temper like a frenzied bull on in a park full of wasps. It wasn't like this everyday though. Just when Laura decided to come out of her room.