Anastasia was running around this big city sad and angry. Her all world tumbled down and she had to wait all the night for the ticket to her hometown. It was this special moment between the night and the day. She stopped and listened carefully. Crows that were around her started making noises. She started running again and every lamp she passed by was filled with the noise of the crows. They were flying above her taking turns like runners. She looked up in surprise. "Why is this happening?" Then she looked at the exhibition window on the shop on her right. There were dresses on sale. But all the dresses looked dark and sinister. The interior
Anastasia was running around this big city sad and angry. Her all world tumbled down and she had to wait all the night for the ticket to her hometown. It was this special moment between the night and the day. She stopped and listened carefully. Crows that were around her started making noises. She started running again and every lamp she passed by was filled with the noise of the crows. They were flying above her taking turns like runners. She looked up in surprise. "Why is this happening?" Then she looked at the exhibition window on the shop on her right. There were dresses on sale. But all the dresses looked dark and sinister. The interior
He had a habit of catching things.
Usually, good things. A basketball, or a cat falling from a tree, or his baby sister, one memorable time, as she fell out of her crib.
It was instinct to him, second nature. He didn't need to think about it—his hands acted independently from the rest of him, completely on their own accord, risk and volition. His hands, to him, were unbearably selfish. They thought very little of consequence. Didn’t they care about the potential pain? Did it matter to them that what they caught might. . . hurt? He was still rather young the first time he caught a knife that had fallen off the kitchen counter.
from the phantom, to the ruins by sylveda, literature
Literature
from the phantom, to the ruins
Skeleton boy—
You were an architectural masterpiece, a city caught aflame, Atlantis purged with fire—
you were destined to drown, but burned instead,
cinders are not becoming of you.
Skeleton boy—your ghost left so long ago.
Turning your ribs into wind chimes will not summon back
all that you used to be.
Skeleton boy, remember that your crooked teeth are
bones too.
Bones that break, bones that splinter, like the words you uttered before you—
Your ribcage used to house a heart. I don’t think either of us realized
love had an expiry date.
Skeleton boy, your jaw works on
hinges,
it is a door that pr
Life seem to consist of waiting. I've been waiting for a few years to get closer to my dreams, and since some of them came true, still the biggest one was always out of reach. What I got instead was sort of ironic image of what I wished for... it didn't help that I finally got closer, went through these thousands of kilometres that were in between, didn't help I am surrounded by people from the same field, still he stays hidden somewhere behind the corner... so I keep on waiting...
Maybe in next 5 years there will come a day he'll take one step to find the girl living just next street.
Siis odotan...