Staring at the clinically clean pages of her life, she sighed. They have always intimidated me. Every time I wanted to write a love story it turned in to a tragedy, she thought. Now I will leave them blank, as blank as blank can be. Her fingers tightened around the trigger and one shot rang out. The pages were clean no more, all spattered with her blood.
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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