it has been thirty days since you did something about it, he thought. Twenty five, not thirty days the calendar corrected him. He had this wonderful knack of procrastinating. So much so that he can be called a true champion in that sport. Deep inside he knew that he could beat anyone when it comes to keeping things for later. Sadly, the clock on his wall never thought so. Never had it paused once to look at him lounging on his chair staring at the wall. It had always been busy eating up the seconds a solitary tick and a tock at at a time. He stood up, yawned and looked out of the window. The shadows were longer than they were in the morning. A slight breeze was upsetting the fallen leaves on a cobbled path. The story was not going anywhere, just like him. That's when she stepped in, a wry little runaway from a nearby mental asylum. She was high on dope and he was a low on hope. She burst into his life through the front door. He didn't know what to make out of her. She didn't know he even existed. One day a man found them on that sofa by the fireplace like two mannequins from outer space.
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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