Thoughts just streamed in like the cool breeze through a half open window. He wanted to be a big name in publishing. But his tales didn't really make it in a world brimming with stories. They just blended in with the rest. Only he could recognize them in a crowd. For others they were just like any other story. Some took them home, some didn't. They just stood there braving the odds for a random stranger to delve deeper into their souls. At times he also used to wonder whether he himself was someone else's story.
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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