I saw my words lying dead on a piece of white paper. They were floating bloated and lifeless in between the blue lines. A faint cry escaped my lips as I knew the reason for their misery. It was me who fed them to the white paper without sparing much thought. I was on a roll, I thought. But it was my pen that was bleeding wordless cliched words that made no sense. Just like the one before this line.
Looks like the fog just spared my window to the street. The street lights looked liking smokers in an alley. The cobble stones were wet from the drizzle. The street dogs were busy barking at something. A breeze just unsettled the garbage can's lid. My world hasn't changed much. Everyday I look for some sign of change. Nothing seems to change. I have grown bald. My eyesight has dimmed. My kids have grown. The window pane has gathered dust and dirt. The spiders have evolved. Some old buildings have given way to new ones. The neon signs have gone. Still nothing seem to have changed. Change they say has to come from within. But then, what can come out of an empty narrow dead end?
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