A song plays.
A soft melody of the young sea.
Our shimmering souls swirl in spirals, grinding in unison as the vibrant waves. Laughs, smiles and hands gain life. I fight to keep my poise but my armor only consists of thin cloth.
Flamingos breathe instead of swans.
Hyacinths bloom instead of roses.
The music stops.
I bow down to musicians, artists, painters and a few materialistic things. Then I look at his puzzling frivolous stare and realize I'm a writer that not only prefers a heavy pen, but also a
heavy heart.
