Do you want to write? Asked the paper. The pen didn't know how to react. It was pretty unusual for the paper to make the first move. The pen felt the ink boil inside him. But in the heat of the action he could just spurt out a few nasty ink blobs. The paper felt dejected. It was her first attempt at getting the upper hand and all she had was a few ugly blots to show for it.
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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