As if only a space in time with only words pouring out of her mouth at random, she writes. She thinks. And she types continuously. While none of the words she pairs together makes any sense. While so many sentences are unfinished. And so many thoughts cannot be fathomed into words or phrases or sentences. As time stands still for her she lets her self write away. Until she has thought herself to believe that the bones beneath the porcelain skin on her soft hands have shattered violently. And her mind dips into a trans with the thought and fear of being forgotten. And then she gets this feeling that she's forgetting something and she gets up, stops writing, walks out the door...
To Confront Her Past
YOU ARE READING
Unable to Function
PoetryIn only a thousand characters I will try to explain, my meaning of every short story here. To give myself more of a challenge I will try to describe them in one word. In one word I will reveal the meaning of these tales. In one word I will describe...
